


Permanence

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Awkwardness, Beefy Bucky, Blatant Flirting, Bucky Barnes Works in Retail, Clint Barton Has No Chill, Fluff, Frotting, Gift Fic, Gothabilly Darcy, M/M, Nick Fury is a Scary Boss, Oral Sex, Sam Wilson is an Excellent Roommate, Skinny Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers is a Tattoo Artist, Steve is a heart patient, Stucky Secret Santa Exchange 2016, Tumblr Prompt, amputee bucky, bath bombs, but also a Good Boss, for secretly-buckybarnes on Tumblr, mentions of Bucky's PTSD, the author is a horrible person, you can almost hear Just the Way You Are playing throughout in the background of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9047141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Bucky Barnes is tired of empty flings, his awful ex, and of how he feels every time he looks in the mirror and sees his old wounds. But when he meets the tiny, outspoken tattoo artist that works across the street from his used book shop, will Bucky let him write his name across his jaded heart?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry. That summary was cheesy, but getting that part written helps me to jump over my writer’s block. That took it from a blank Google Doc to an actual piece of fiction. This story is for @secretly-buckybarnes on Tumblr. My lovely giftee requested a hipster AU with Skinny Steve and Beefy Bucky, so I hope this delivered.
> 
> The prompts that I used, based on our anon chats: Hipster AU. Beefy Bucky. Skinny Steve. Tattoos. Hope you like it.

Bucky hated having to sacrifice his lunch hour for the sake of an errand he’d been dreading all week, but Logan wanted his jacket back. Bucky regretted having to give back the distressed, brown leather moto jacket, since it was comfortable and went with everything he owned, but he wasn’t a dick. Logan had been well-worn and comfortable, too, for those few weeks, but, well.

Sometimes, you just ran out of things to talk about with someone once the spark started to flicker. Bucky also hated to admit that maybe Logan was too old for him, and they were both a little too independent. But he was sure as _hell_ gonna miss that jacket.

Bucky took the red line train across town and walked the remaining few blocks to Logan’s brownstone, glad that the brisk, sunny day hadn’t turned yet. The December day was unseasonably warm, but the wind still managed to bite through his jeans and sneak down the neck of his hoodie. That meant a freezing cold night, the kind where Bucky wore most of his clothes to bed, including his socks. Despite a strongly worded letter to his landlord and the housing authority, Bucky’s heater still hadn’t been fixed. The cold made his shoulder ache like a bitch.

Bucky knew Logan was at work, too, but it felt too weird showing up at his office, since they’d left things in such a weird place. Luckily, Logan’s roommate was home, and Bucky could just knock, drop off the coat, and skedaddle. And the thing is, it hadn’t even been a break-up, so much. Just… 

 

Logan: (texting) _Where are we going with this? Where do you think we should be going?_  
Bucky: _Uh. Where did you want it to go?_  
Logan: _Look…_

And the typing bubble pulsed on the phone screen. Bucky exhaled a shaky breath. There it was. Why wasn’t he surprised? No good conversation ever started with “Look.”

Logan: _...I think you’re great. Really great._

“But?” Bucky muttered aloud as he waited for Logan’s fingers to get on with it. He was a maddeningly slow texter.

Logan: _I just think you could do better. Feels like you’re just killing time with me. And I don’t’ wanna hold you down._

“Okay,” Bucky said, shrugging. Fine, then.

 

It wasn’t the worst brush-off in the world. Logan didn’t read Bucky a litany of his faults or tear him down. Or tell him it was “nothing personal” like Brock had. The _hell_ it _hadn’t_ been personal. Asshole…

So, Bucky wasn’t going to let Logan hold him down or spend time asking himself what he’d done wrong. Why Logan didn’t want to stick around. The same answers were crammed in his brain, with the lid locked down tight, and Bucky wasn’t going to ask those same questions, anymore. 

Bucky trotted up the steps and rang the intercom buzzer. A mother and her two kids lingered by the mailboxes in the lobby, but they made no move to let him in. Bucky wouldn’t take offense, since they didn’t know him from Adam. 

“Who dis?” Remy’s accent was always thicker when he was tired, and he worked nights. Logan never seemed to mind that he and his roommate had opposing schedules, as long as Remy was quiet when Logan was trying to sleep. 

“It’s Bucky, and I have Logan’s jacket to return to him.”

“Jus’ a sec, mi,” he told him. To Bucky’s credit, Remy at least didn’t sound annoyed with him, but Bucky wouldn’t blame him if he wasn’t thrilled to see his roomie’s ex banging down his door. _Showing up at his work looks worse,_ he reminded himself as the door buzzer sounded and he pulled it open. Bucky rode the elevator up two flights and rounded the corner. He found Remy waiting just outside the door in pajama pants and a familiar-looking black tee. It was Logan’s Johnny Cash shirt. His favorite. Remy glanced down, following Bucky’s eyes, and he tugged on his hair in a telling gesture. Well.

“Laundry day. Wuz de only t’ing dat wuzn’t on de floor or in de hamper.”

“Sure. Just let him know I brought this back.” Bucky handed him the jacket, and Remy folded it over his arm… almost reverently… and stroked the worn leather.

“Sure, mec.”

“I’ll let you get back to bed.”

“Wuz up, anyway. Jus’ watchin’ Judge Judy.”

“Must be nice.” Bucky felt ugly prickles creep over his skin, feeling embarrassed, like the old flame harrassing the new. Bucky almost couldn’t blame Logan. Remy was easy on the eyes. They lived together, anyway. Maybe it was just a matter of time.

“See ya around,” he told him, even though that wasn’t in the cards.

“Wan’ ‘im t’call you?”

“No. I don’t.”

Bucky managed wavered between taking a cab back to work and trying to make the red line back before he had to clock in before trotting down the escalator and running his fare card through the turnstile. The stale smell of the tunnel blasted him in the face along with the rush of air from the northbound train leaving him behind on the deck. He checked the digital marquee and saw that the next one would get there in ten minutes. That didn’t leave him any time to stop at the food truck outside his building, but a vending machine burrito was cheap; he could lie to himself that it was lunch if he had to. Anything tasted good before payday. By the time he made it back to Taking a Page, he was five minutes late clocking back in. Clint looked up at him from an issue of _Guns and Ammo_ and tapped his imaginary watch. The dilapidated store smelled like old books and the wood paneling along the walls. 

“I didn’t want to go on lunch today anyway, Barnes.”

“Sorry. Got a little held up.”

“Sure, you did. Did you get anything good?”

“Nope.” He held up the burrito and tucked it back into his jacket pocket. 

“Delicious _and_ nutritious,” Clint lied. “Those things have a half-life of about a hundred years.”

‘I’m gonna go heat this up.”

“I can’t take my break until you get back,” Clint reminded him as he made a beeline for the break room.

“I’ll just be a minute!”

Bucky hurried past the back office, where Nick was having a heated conversation with their internet provider that the store’s hot spot signal was gone. Bucky didn’t want Nick giving him the evil eye about arriving back late from lunch the third day in a row. He made it to the break room, tore open the end of the burrito sleeve and tossed it into the microwave. He thumbed through his phone texts while it spun, and there were no messages from Logan. Bucky felt wistful, wishing things had been different between them.

“Bucky,” Nick barked from the doorway, dashing his musings to bits. “Go and set up the display in the front window. Get the decorations out of the store room.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t take too long with that,” he told him as Bucky took his burrito out of the microwave and played hot potato with it, tossing it between his hands to cool it. Bucky blew on it and took a couple of unenthusiastic bites of it, managing to burn the crap out of his tongue, then wrapped the rest in a paper towel before stowing it in the fridge. When he came back from the store room, Clint already had his jacket on and was checking his own phone. He waved to Bucky as he struggled to the front window with the box of Christmas crap. “I’m gonna meet Nat.”

“Me and the decorations will be waiting when you get back.”

“Hahahaha. Yeah, no.” Clint beat feet, blowing Bucky a kiss as he headed out the door, letting it chime in his wake. Bucky went through the box and began hauling out threadbare tinsel garlands that were at least ten years old, boxes of glass ornament balls (some missing top hooks, some cracked) and a few miniature pre-decorated Christmas trees. Bucky began moving the display stands and shelves in the front window alcove, moving out the usual display books (Tom Clancy, J.K. Rowling, and George R. R. Martin) and setting out Christmas craft and cook books, Harlequin romances with grinning couples in Santa hats on the covers, and several Imaginarium kids’ play sets and Lego kits. Bucky arranged the tinsel around the stands and spaced the ornaments out in neat intervals, sneezing at the dust that rose up from the box. Bucky wished he had a non-permeable mask if Nick was gonna make him handle nasty trinkets.

Nick, thankfully, didn’t subject Bucky to Christmas music. Half the stores on their block bombarded them with it. If Bucky had to hear Mariah trilling “All I want for Christmas is yoooouuuuuuuuuuuu” one more time, he would rip his own ears off. Bucky continued to fiddle with the ornaments. The aluminum caps on the balls kept popping off when we went to loop hooks through the wire, and he was about ready to hurl the whole box out the front door of the shop. Frustration was making his hands shake with the minute task. _It shouldn’t be this hard._ His left hand didn’t make the task any easier; when he tried to push the top back onto one of the balls, the neck of the ornament cracked, dropping thin glass shards over his lap. “Shit. Piece of cheap shit,” he muttered to himself.

“Excuse me.” The older, feminine voice startled Bucky, and he dropped the ball. The rest of it shattered on the hardwood floor. Because of _course_ it did. A woman of about sixty wearing a purple bubble jacket and matching crocs. “I can give you a minute to sweep that up, but could you help me?”

“I sure can,” he assured her, even though his nerves were rattled. Bucky and his left arm had a complicated relationship.

“I’m looking for those books. You know the ones, with all of the funny stories.”

“Oh. Uh. Are they by a specific author?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think they’re a collection of some kind. My friend Beatrice just told me about them when I was at her house.” She was in a mood to ramble. Bucky tried not to sneak looks at the broken ornament at his feet. “You always see those books. They come out with new ones all the time.”

Bucky hazarded a guess. “ _Chicken Soup for the Soul?_ ”

She slapped her forehead with a flourish. “YES! That’s it, that’s it! Oh, bless your heart! It was going to drive me bananas wondering what the name was after coming all the way across town.”

“I’ll show you where they are,” he told her he led the way toward the “Inspirational” section. They had an enormous stock of used _Chicken Soup_ titles; when people couldn’t sell their mothers’ copies of the books at garage sales, they brought them to Take a Page. 

“Beatrice was telling me about an adorable story she read in one, but she didn’t tell me which volume. There are so many to choose from…”

“I know. You could go to town in here,” he encouraged.

“Maybe you could help me, then.”

Bucky felt his hopes sinking. He was going to be here for a while.

He spent the next twenty minutes helping her to skim through the table of contents of each one, with the loosest description possible of the story that didn’t help him to weed out the book. “It was so cute,” she kept telling him. Bucky had to nod to the customers that slowly filtered in through the door. Nick came out to see what the hold up was and frowned at the remains of the shattered ornament by the window. “I’ll get you a broom, Barnes.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said weakly. 

“It had a dog in it,” the woman continued as if his boss hadn’t just given him another task.

“Maybe- y’know, it might be this one.” Bucky handed her _Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover’s Soul_. She looked at it doubtfully.

“You think so?”

“I think it would he helpful to try that one first. I’ll let you look it over,” he told her, then added “Be back in a minute.”

Bucky made a quick circuit of the store and greeted each customer. One was a bored-looking twentysomething with his beanie pulled down over his ears and a faded Army jacket worn over one of those annoying “Keep Calm” shirts. Bucky found him a dog-eared copy of James Joyce’s _Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_ and a pre-owned copy of Nirvana’s _Nevermind_. There were two middle schoolers rooting through the shelves of used video games; Bucky smiled as he gently reminded them to put the ones they weren’t going to buy back on the shelf, earning himself unimpressed looks. Nick caught up to him and shoved the broom and dustpan at him. By the time he finished cleaning up the glittering bits and pieces, Purple Coat stopped by and patted his arm, then looking briefly surprised. Bucky tried not to let his expression change when she discovered, as people often did, that it didn’t feel quite… real.

Then her face softened. “My grandson is about your age. He’s a veteran.”

Bucky paled slightly at her gentle, well-meaning tone. “Thank him for his service.” That brought back her smile. She patted him again.

“And you were right, by the way. This is the copy I was looking for. You’ve been very helpful… er…?”

“Bucky.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Bucky.”

“Can I help you with anything else?” Bucky felt hollow, his smile as benign as he could manage.

“This was all I came for, thank you.”

“Then I’ll ring you up.”

 

By the time Clint came back from his lunch break, the store was crowded again, and Bucky had abandoned his attempts at finishing the front display.

“I can man the register if you wanna finish that.”

“I don’t want to finish that,” he grumbled as he neatened the stacks of old vinyl records and stepped back behind the counter.

“It’ll only look like shit anyway,” Clint reasoned. He made a halfhearted attempt at finishing the opposite window and hung a wreath with a slightly crumpled red bow over the front door. Good enough.

*

 

When Bucky made it back to his apartment, he found Sam at the stove making rice and a message from Logan on his phone. And one from Brock. Bucky had eaten the rest of his disgusting burrito on the subway, eschewing the taco truck. “Hey. How was work?”

Bucky growled as he shucked off his jacket, reconsidered the temperature of the room, and shrugged it back on again. “How _was_ work. Yeah. You already know the answer, Wilson.”

“Had to ask. It’s impolite not to,” he told Bucky as he lifted the lid, gave the contents of the pot a brief stir and replaced it. The smell made Bucky’s stomach growl. “I tried calling you to see if you wanted to meet for lunch.”

“Must’ve missed it. Might’ve been on the subway when you called, maybe the call got dropped.”

“Where did you catch the train to?”

“Logan’s. Dropped off his coat.”

“Shit. Right. You said you were going to that.” Sam sighed. “That was a _nice_ jacket.”

“It was warm,” Bucky said mournfully. “I’m freezing my tits off.”

“Go.” Sam waved him off. “Go put on your comfies and get under a blanket. Turn on Smackdown.” Because Sam and Bucky both shared a shameless love of WWE, and Bucky needed to watch big, oiled-up guys get thrown through tables and off ladders to wash the day he’d had out of his mouth.

“Was he there when you dropped it off?”

“No. Just his roommate.”

“At least there was no drama.”

“He was wearing Logan’s clothes.”

Sam paused in dishing up their plates. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Sam sighed, shaking his head and smiling ruefully at Bucky. “Better finding out this way, than years down the line when you’ve gotten attached and in too deep, man.”

“I wish I could even _get_ attached.” And Bucky wasn’t even wading in the shallow end with anyone he’d spent time with, lately. Not since Brock. And that was a mess.

“Don’t get me wrong. He seemed decent,” Sam told him. “But the age thing. That would’ve eventually gotten in the way.”

“It was fine,” Bucky insisted. 

“You were at different places with your priorities. When you hit Logan’s age, life’s all about things like… prostate exams. And multivitamins. Four-oh-one-kay accounts. Actually paying your utility bills before you get a red notice. Going to bed after dinner. And eating _fiber_.”

“He was stable.”

“You were getting bored. Admit it.” Bucky returned to the couch, bundled in flannels and fleece, and they watched Smackdown, chanting along with the taunts and crowing at the smack talk. They flipped through their recordings and watched three episodes of _Gotham_ before they both dozed off. Bucky startled awake, jerking his head up from where it slumped against Sam’s shoulder. Sam snored softly, twitched, then flipped over toward the arm of the couch. Bucky took that as his signal to go to bed. He tossed his blanket over Sam and clicked off the set, took his dishes to the sink, and turned off the kitchen light. 

“Go t’bed, Wilson,” Bucky called out softly. He waited for a response and heard Sam mumble agreement, but he didn’t make any move to get up. Once in a while, Sam dozed in the living room for a while before heading to his bed, and Bucky learned not to disturb him. Sometimes, Sam had issues with insomnia, and Bucky wasn’t about to compromise whatever sleep he could manage. As an afterthought, Bucky went back to the couch and pulled the second throw blanket over his roommate, since their apartment was drafty, and Bucky hated the thought of leaving him to freeze. He tucked it snugly around Sam’s back and legs, smiling for a moment at how cute his roommate looked when he slept. That didn’t mean they didn’t give each other shit for snoring, talking in their sleep, drooling, or the usual petty things. 

Bucky decided to turn in, himself. He deleted the texts from Brock and Logan without reading them.

*

“Hey. Bucky. Look.” Clint elbowed Bucky as he joined him in the doorway, nodding toward the shop across the street. “Doesn’t that seem like overkill?”

“Wow.” They’d both just clocked in, and the tattoo shop over yonder looked like the Walmart Christmas decoration section threw up all over it. They noticed a couple of employees coming out periodically to hang more lights around the windows and door frame. “That’s a little excessive.”

“I mean, it’s _fun_ ,” I guess.” Clint took a gulp of his coffee. “It just makes the rest of us look bad.”

“We make ourselves look bad just fine,” Bucky reminded him. It was cold outside, and he saw the shorter one out there, stomping his feet and blowing on his hands to warm them while he gave feedback to the woman trying to hang a wreath up near the roof; Bucky could tell she was calling down to him “Is it straight?” as she kept adjusting it. He kept calling out instruction and gesturing, with his breath coming out in misty little puffs. Bucky could tell he was at his wit’s end, but he was enjoying the spectacle of the two of them arguing. 

He saw the woman wobble atop the ladder, and the little guy panicked a little; Bucky made out the words “Just let me!” and saw him gesturing with broad, sharp waves of his arm for her to come down the ladder and switch places with him. “Bossy,” Bucky murmured.

“Feisty little shit, ain’t he?” Clint snickered. “He’s a gentleman,” he allowed as she climbed down the ladder, with Little Guy holding it steady. She gave him a huffy look, then made an “after you” motion for him to climb up, if he was so particular about the stupid wreath. He climbed up quickly, easy enough when he was so slight, and, to Bucky’s surprise, not afraid of heights. He craned his neck around to ask her how the wreath looked when he moved it. She made a so-so gesture with her hand, and he fiddled with it again. It looked fine to Bucky; this was _definitely_ overkill. Bucky noticed the young brunette checking her phone when she was supposed to be watching his progress and steadying the ladder. Bucky had the random thought that the cold metal rungs might be-

- _slippery_! Shit. Shit, shit, he was wobbling up there.

“Right.” Bucky jerked open the door and gave the street a glance before barging his way across it, not giving two fucks about the honking and expletives that greeted him, ignoring Clint’s “Dude! Coat?” from behind him. He bolted over to the ladder and went to steady it, but the overcorrection made the blond above him lose his grip on the eave of the roof.

“Shit!” Bucky heard him hiss as he dropped. Bucky reached up, cold panic seizing him, and he braced himself. Bucky was hit by one-hundred-thirty pounds of bony limbs wrapped up tightly in a wool pea coat, and the two of them crashed back onto the sidewalk. Bucky reeled, stunned, his arms instinctively tightening around the person on top of him who was muttering expletives under his breath.

“Holy crap!” His friend shoved her phone into her pocket and hurried forward and crouched over them. “I’m so sorry,” she cried, hands wringing as Bucky saw stars. His whole body smarted from the impact, and he knew he would have bruises in interesting places by tomorrow, but he reached for the young man plastered to him, staring down at him with a funny squint. 

His eyes were a pretty shade of blue, but he was staring at Bucky like he couldn’t see him that well. “Man, I’m _so_ sorry. Here, let me. Just… get off of you.”

“Are you okay?” Bucky demanded, patting him over. “Please tell me you didn’t break anything.”

“Steve, are you all right?” Bucky noticed offhandedly that his friend was strikingly pretty, fair-skinned and buxom, with flowing, sable brown hair and large blue eyes - sapphire, not the paler, clearer shade of the guy currently using him as a bean bag. “Oh, my God… I took my eyes off you for one second, and look what happened!”

“It’s never a good idea to leave me to my own devices, Darce,” he pointed out, and his voice was deep and rich, surprising from someone so tiny. His face was young, but Bucky guessed he was about his age, and he was pretty easy on the eyes. His nose was a little crooked but well-shaped; he had full, soft-looking pink lips and firm cheekbones. Most of the women Bucky knew would kill for his thick, dark lashes. Guy was _cute_.

“I suck as a friend,” she moaned. 

Bucky held back the _Ya think?_ that was on the tip of his tongue; she looked contrite, and she was also holding a pair of wire-framed bifocals in her hand, which she held out to Steve as Bucky gave him a boost upright. Then Steve reached down - wow, he had nice hands - and pulled Bucky to his feet. His fingers felt like ice, but his skin was smooth and unblemished. “Thanks,” Bucky muttered. His own teeth were trying to chatter from the chill; his henley wasn’t enough to protect him.

“Hey, thank _you_ ,” he countered, then held out his hand for Bucky to shake. Bucky was drawn in by his smile. “Didn’t quite stick the landing.”

“Gee. Wanna go again?”

“Um. No.”

“We could be a circus act,” Bucky offered, smirking slightly. Steve huffed.’’

“This place _is_ a circus.” He motioned to the tattoo shop, and now that Bucky had a better look at him, he saw the edges of inked lines along the edge of his throat where his turtleneck sweater didn’t quite cover them. Bucky was intrigued; he wished he could peel back the fabric and see more. “I work with a bunch of animals.”

“Like you’re not the ringleader,” Darcy accused. “Listen to this guy. Don’t let that little dollface of his fool you. Rogers here is a little shit.”

Why didn’t Bucky doubt that?

“O-kaaayy. Didn’t you let me almost go splat a few seconds ago?”

“Your shining knight here came to your rescue,” she reminded him, grinning at Bucky. “Nice catch, by the way. You move _fast_!” She ignored the part where he could have gotten hit by a car and turned into a grease spot. Bucky hooked his thumb into his pocket, and he caught Steve’s eyes tracking the motion after he put his glasses back on. He saw Bucky’s glove on the left one and blinked. Bucky didn’t want to admit to them that he and Clint had been staring like a couple of looky-loos from their door across the street.

“I never got your name.”

“Just call me Bucky.”

“Really?” Darcy raised her brows, but Steve gave her a shove. “Your parents actually named you that?”

“Darce! Be nice!” Steve hissed. “Do we have to have the talk again?”

She pouted. “No.”

“Do I want to know what the talk entails?” Bucky inquired.

“No,” she interjected. “Look, the wreath’s straight enough. Mr. Control Freak didn’t like the way I hung it the first time.” She pointed up at it, and Bucky made a thoughtful noise. It looked a little crooked, but no way in hell was he sending either of these two up a ladder again in the cold breeze.

“Where do you want the ladder?” Bucky asked, folding it shut and tugging it away from the side of the shop.

“You don’t have to do that, Buck!” Bucky warmed to the sound of the nickname.

“It’ll only take a second.”

“That’s fine.” Steve looked pleased. “Back this way.” He opened a gate off the alley, holding it open for Bucky, and it lead down a ways to a storage room with a rickety door. Steve unlocked it, sliding the lock off the hasp, and Bucky leaned inside and propped the ladder inside. He could smell a hint of mold and saw a sea of cobwebs, but he didn’t make any remark that after Darcy and Steve finished decorating, maybe they could give this room a little attention with some bleach.

“I don’t normally introduce myself by flattening random guys on the street,” Steve confessed. “Hey,” he said, noticing Bucky hugging himself, but Bucky hoped he wasn’t paying attention to his gloved hand, “you’ve gotta be freezing. Come in and warm up for a minute.”

“Actually, I’ve gotta get back. I just deserted my buddy Clint. I have to spell him for his first break.”

“Oh. Which one’s your place?” 

Bucky nodded over to the bookstore. “The one with the sad front window.”

“It’s not very festive,” Darcy agreed, not looking up from her phone screen.

“Darce. Be nice,” Steve repeated.

“Well, it’s not.”

“It’s not,” Bucky agreed. “We just trot out the same old, beat-up, janky decorations every year.”

“You could at least get a window painter to spruce it up a little.” Bucky would’ve loved to hang out a little longer with Steve, because he liked listening to that voice, but he was freezing. He also saw Clint throwing up his hands from just inside the door of the shop.

“Tell my boss where we can get one that won’t charge a grip. Hey,” Bucky told him, reaching to shake his hand one more time, “it was nice to meet you. You okay?”

“Better than I would’ve been if you hadn’t broken my fall. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel like a _jackass_ ,” Steve amended, and that smile was self-deprecating. Charming. He had a gleam of intelligence and humor in his eyes. Bucky wanted to spend more time staring into them. “Don’t be a stranger. When you have a chance, stop by again on one of your breaks. Take a look around the shop.”

“We might put you to work sweeping up,” Darcy promised.

“No,” Steve deadpanned.

“Bye, Steve.”

“See you later, Buck.”

And if Bucky peeked back over his shoulder once he was across the street to see if Steve was still watching him, you couldn’t blame him. (He was.)

*

“Bucky, did you seriously run across the street and _catch_ that guy?”

“Uh…”

“You ran outta here like a bat out of hell,” Clint mused as he crammed half a donut into his mouth from the break room offerings. One of the book store’s vendors stopped by with more business cards and a box of pastries.

“If he landed on the concrete, he would’ve hurt himself.” Bucky’s voice sounded absent as he tagged marked down books with orange clearance stickers. “He doesn’t have any meat on him.”

“He had _you_ on him.” Clint elbowed him. 

Bucky gave him an incredulous look, then went back to his tagging. “That’s reaching. Even for you.”

“You weren’t in a hurry to let him go, Barnes.”

Bucky’s face betrayed him. His cheeks felt like they were on fire, and he was trying to suppress his smile.

“You _like_ him.”

“Shut. UP.”

“Huh? Ya do! Look at your face… gads, you’re so cute when I’m right and when I get to give you shit!” Clint tried ineffectually to hide the rest of his donut behind the counter and scrubbed his palms on his pants legs as a young woman in yoga pants asked him where she could find a copy of the Paleo diet. She quirked her brow at him as she followed him to the Health and Fitness section in the back. Clint found her the book she wanted and left her browsing, then snuck back behind the register.

“You like him,” he hissed at Bucky loudly. “Guy literally fell into your arms.”

“Oh, God. Clint. _Please._ ”

“What? I told you, it’s cute.”

“What’s cute?” Nick stood in the back doorway hefting a box. “Might be nice if someone would come out to the receiving room and unpack these.”

“Bucky’s cute. He has a crush,” Clint teased. Bucky gave Nick a long-suffering look.

“Good for you,” Nick deadpanned. “Y’know what’s _not_ cute? My front window. That is the most tired looking display and worst excuse for holiday decor I’ve ever seen in my shop.”

Bucky and Clint both glanced at it and shrugged, looking innocent.

“That says ‘Happy Holidays’ to me.”

“I smell chestnuts roasting when I look at it.”

“I smell bullshit.” Nick handed the box to Bucky and stalked toward the door. “There. That’s a shop that takes pride and tries to bring in the customers.” He was pointing at the tattoo shop.

“I think it’s kinda gaudy,” Clint told him.

“‘Gaudy’ piques people’s interests and sets lips a-flappin’,” Nick reminded them. “That creates word of mouth. Word of mouth creates customer traffic.”

“We have traffic.” Clint’s tone was indignant.

“We can come up with something better,” Nick told them. “Go back to the drawing board, fellas.” Then he nodded to the box Bucky had slit open with an xacto blade. “After you unload the stock.”

 

*

The next day wasn’t eventful. Most of their target clientele shopped a mile down the road at Barnes and Noble, where they could spend six dollars on a caramel frap and thumb through new editions on an overstuffed couch. Nick kept Clint and Bucky busy, and that kept Bucky from focusing too much on his last breakup. 

Last night he got a card from Becca, the lone red envelope with its address label printed with little poinsettias standing out amongst the pile of bills and credit card offers. The card was cute; Becca did one of those photo collages with red lettering and kitschy, Christmasy borders around it. His nephew Jeffrey was getting big; she had his last school photo, a candid shot of him eating ice cream, and a picture of him with their parents at Disneyworld. George and Winifred invited him, but Bucky’d had to work. Becca celebrated her six-year anniversary over the summer, and it made Bucky more wistful than envious. Bucky didn’t.. He didn’t need the perfect person to make the world sing and for everything to suddenly burst into rainbows. He just wanted someone who really _wanted_ him, with all of his broken parts. All of the bits and pieces that didn’t quite fit, rough edges and all. Becca was happy. And Becca wasn’t perfect. That gave Bucky hope for himself. Becca and Mark were ridiculous and sickening and domestic, but what made Bucky envy the thing between them was how they kept finding their way back to each other amidst the struggle. They were a couple who still held hands and whose eyes followed each other out of the room every time they left it, and who still slapped each other’s ass in passing (in Bucky’s mind, a relationship goal) even after becoming tired parents with a fixer-upper split-level house in the ‘burbs, two very used-but-paid-for cars, and a stable of credit accounts that guaranteed that they would both work full-time until Halley’s Comet came back. Becca was still beautiful, even with gray strands invading her russet hair and the faint character lines around her mouth, the slackness of her abdomen after having her son; Mark kissed her like they were his favorite things about her. Looked at her the same way he did when she first walked down the aisle in ivory taffeta. Compulsive, insecure Becca, who fostered superstitions like they were kittens and who was all about the “deep, cleansing breath.”

Bucky was back to stickering discount books when Clint called to him, “Hey, Bucky, you’ve got a visitor. And he comes bearing gifts.” Bucky glanced up at Clint, who was grinning like the Cheshire cat over the rim of his coffee cup again - Bucky couldn’t decide if he hated that look - and who flicked his eyes toward the door. Through the glass pane, he saw Steve, struggling under a heavy crate and trying to straighten his glasses.

“Geez, Steve… hold on, buddy, gimme a sec,” Bucky called out as he gathered himself off the floor where he was crouched among the shelves. He darted to the door, jerking it open and practically catching Steve again as he began to overcorrect. Instead, he took the box from his arms, letting Steve finally straighten his glasses. He was still bundled in his peacoat and a cute blue beanie that he had pulled down around his ears. No one should look that cute; Bucky was _done for_.

Steve’s smile was sheepish and grateful. “Thanks. Um. So, I brought you guys a little something to spruce up your shop. I didn’t pick out all of it, some of it was Darcy’s idea. But, yeah. Just wanted to stop by for a minute. To bring you these.”

“Sure, you did,” Clint murmured under his breath.

“Excuse me?” Steve turned toward him, but Clint shook his head.

“Nothing. Just clearing my throat, buddy. Nice hat.”

“Thanks. My mom sent it in my Christmas package last year.”

“She has good taste,” Bucky told him. It brought out Steve’s eyes and the rosy flush of his wind-chapped cheeks.

“She did,” Steve told him quietly. Clint chastened, then turned away, tugging on the hair at his nape. It was one of his “I just fucked up” tells when he wasn’t sure of how to pull his foot out of his mouth.

“Oh.” Bucky’s eyes darted down into the box. “Hey. This was really, _really_ thoughtful, Steve. You didn’t have to go out of your way.”

Steve beamed again. “Just across the street. Ain’t like I walked a mile, Buck. Just wanted to say thank you.”

“You already did.”

“I wanted to say it again.” Steve’s eyes flitted around the room. “It’s cozy in here.”

“It is out front. The door’s always opening, so it lets in the draft, but it’s not bad back here. The loading area is freezing, though.”

Steve grimaced. “I catch a chill easily.” He tugged the lapel of his coat. “This is me, three seasons out of the year.”

_I’ll keep you warm._ “Let’s see what you brought,” Bucky said instead as he set the box down on the counter. “Oh, wow… look at all this stuff!”

“A light-up Grinch!” Clint’s voice was delighted. “Aw, that’s going over Nick’s door!”

“The whole point is to decorate the front of the store, jackass.” Clint waited for Bucky to turn his head, then flicked him behind the ear. Bucky attempted to take umbrage, but Clint danced out of his way. 

“No workplace violence! I’ll have you charged with assault, Barnes!”

“I’ll claim I didn’t see anything,” Nick told them all. He nodded at Steve, who gave him a shy wave. “Who’re you?”

“I’m across the street. Brought some stuff for, uh, Bucky. To decorate with.”

Nick nodded. “Well. Thanks for taking pity on us and showering us with your generosity. Want a donut?”

“I wouldn’t mind one, if it’s. No trouble.” And Steve rubbed his nape as though he really didn’t want to trouble them. Like that was something he frequently worried about.

“It’s not,” Bucky told him as he swept Steve along with him, his hand gentle at his back. He led him to the breakroom, where the pink pasty box still gaped open. There was a cinnamon roll with thick, shining glaze that Steve reached for immediately. He bit into it and made an indecent noise. Bucky wished he could be the fleck of glaze that Steve licked off that tempting lower lip.

“You don’t know how much I needed this. So good.”

“Glad you got one before Clint came back and polished off the rest. So, anyway. I was wondering, are you just, the owner of your shop, or do you do the actual art?”

Steve’s eyes lit up, and he had to pause for a minute to work on the bite he’d just taken, holding up a finger as he chewed. He made more “just hold on, almost there” motions as he worked it down. “I’m the artist. The tattooist. I have a couple of guys who do the piercings, too, and a sweetheart who does the permanent eyeliner and lipliner. You didn’t get to meet her before.”

“So that wasn’t Darcy?”

“Nope. Darcy’s my secretary. She goes to school part-time and has an internship with Stark Industries. She splits rent with two roommates on the side of town that’s just a shade shadier than this one.”

“I’ve got a roommate,” Bucky admitted.

“Just _one?_ ” Steve was impressed. 

“Sam has a grown-up job. My living there helps him afford to _eat_. Eating is nice. So’s not walking around in the dark.”

“Wow. Someone’s into fancy living.”

“The fanciest. I buy brand-name mac and cheese.” Bucky dusted his nails against his shirt boastfully.

Steve made “I’m not worthy” bows at Bucky and pretended to fawn over him. “Okay,” Bucky told him, “that’s enough of that.” (Which was a lie. Bucky _loved_ it.)

“I’m in awe of your greatness.” Mischief danced in Steve’s eyes. And they ate Bucky up.

“Bet you’d also be in awe of our futon. It’s shabby chic. Heavy on the shabby.”

“Bet it looks just fine when you’re on it.”

Bucky’s face burned all the way up to his ears. Bucky huffed and rolled his eyes, though. “That was awful.”

“Bad, huh?”

“Terrible. Hope you don’t drop stinkers like those in _your_ shop, pal.”

“You’ll just have to visit my shop and find out. I won’t even make you catch me this time.”

Bucky bit his lip. “But, that was half the fun.”

Because Bucky could be awful, too.

*

From then on, Steve launched the campaign to get Bucky into his shop. He visited Bucky on his lunch breaks, tempting Bucky away from the register and outside to the food trucks. Steve would show up like clockwork, in his peacoat and beanie, and he would drag Bucky for loaded fries, street tacos topped with shredded cabbage, onion and cilantro, generously doused with lime and Tapatio, or pitas full of fried falafel and drizzled with tzatziki. Clint would float them a twenty to bring him back a to-go carton for himself and Nat, who took just as much savage glee in giving Bucky shit for his crush. (Steve admitted to Bucky that Nat was nice, but that she honestly scared the crap out of him. “She’s like this creepy ninja, Buck.” Bucky: “Right???”) Slowly but surely, Steve became a fixture at Take a Page.

He surprised Bucky one morning when he arrived at work to find the front windows of the shop elaborately painted. There was a silly scene of Santa cozying up on a recliner in red plaid pajamas and his stocking feet in front of the fireplace with a book; on the opposite window, the reindeer and elves were playing video games on ancient-looking controllers (Bucky could swear they were from a Nintendo 64). Each character was detailed, with comical expressions; Santa’s beard looked plush. The reindeer all sprawled in childlike poses, giving the painting so much charm and humor. Bucky exclaimed in delight, “Oh, my God! That little shit!” as he took out his phone and snapped pictures to post to all of his social media. He tagged Steve’s shop in all of them to give him free press, with the caption “This is what happens when you have artsy friends.” Clint met him at the coffee pot, where he was pretending that he hadn’t just took a swig out of the fresh pot without using a cup when Bucky walked in. 

“Dude. I caught him just as he was packing up his stuff. He actually _painted_ that out there.”

“He must have been here at the crack of dawn.”

“Then he ain’t human.” Because Clint didn’t do mornings or anything that involved coherent thought before ten AM.

“Mr. Barnes,” Nick called out from the corridor, “I need you to go ask your friend to send me an invoice so I can pay him for his efforts. Efforts that certain employees of mine couldn’t be bothered to make.”

“I think it was a gift.”

“Tell him to invoice me, anyway.” Since Nick did things by the book. “If you’re good at something, why do it for free?”

“I’ll ask him.”

“He’s a busy man. Don’t keep taking him away from his customers,” Nick added as he poured himself a cup of joe. “Go visit the man. You have five minutes.”

Bucky opened his mouth in confusion, then closed it. Nick stared at him, eyebrow quirked.

“Did I stutter?”

Bucky held up his hand as though he had another question, then dropped it. He grabbed his coat back off the peg and rushed out of the shop. Nick didn’t see the grin threatening to crack his face. Bucky felt giddy as he waited at the corner (like sensible people did) for the walk light to flash, hands shoved into his pockets and practically bouncing on his heels. He knew Clint was no doubt whining about Bucky getting to go on break before he’d even _started_ his shift, but what could you do?

He paused at the door of the shop, bracing himself and quickly checking his reflection in the window. His hair was still seal-slick from his shower and from the gel he’d swiped through it, but there were a few stray tendrils that worked their way free from his ponytail. He tried and failed to tamp down his smile as he turned the stiff handle and let himself inside. Loud music greeted Bucky as he crossed the threshold - Running Down a Dream, by Tom Petty, of all things - and he smelled incense. The shop had a dark, plush interior, and there were red vinyl, retro couches in the waiting area, rockabilly posters and framed pictures of Elvis and James Dean everywhere, and the “A Christmas Story” fishnet leg lamp standing in the corner. The store was kitschy and ridiculous, and Bucky _loved_ it.  Darcy looked up from her magazine at the front counter and gave him a sly smile, straightening up as he came in. Bucky noticed that she was stacked, poured into a red gothabilly-style dress with a fluffy crinoline underneath and a cardigan sweater buttoned just at the neck. When she emerged from behind the counter, Bucky noticed the tattoos around her ankles from under her sheer, black pantyhose with back seams up the calves. She wore her hair in elegant coils with a red silk flower tucked into it, making Bucky feel underdressed. “I keep telling Steve we need to get a better lock on that front door,” she accused. “No telling who’ll just walk up in here when you’re not looking.”

“You’re looking. Gotta tell Steve his security in this place doesn’t just stop at the locks.”

“Touche.” Darcy craned her head back but never quite took her eyes off of Bucky. “STEVE!” It was only then that Bucky noticed the sound of buzzing underscoring the music. “Steve-O! Front and center!”

“Is he busy? I can come back.”

“Nope.” Darcy looped her hand through the crook of Bucky’s arm and escorted him back like they were entering their junior prom. The music and buzzing both grew louder as they made their way through the shadowy hallway. Bucky admired the artwork on the walls, including several black and white framed photos of Steve shaking hands with different tattoo artists that Bucky recognized from some of the magazine covers in the front of the shop. When they reached the studio in back, Bucky noticed that it was impeccably swept, and all of the surfaces gleamed; there was even a faint scent of bleach in the air. Steve was at his station concentrating on the arm of a girl who looked barely old enough for a tattoo, but Bucky noticed the piece Steve was working on wasn’t her first by _far_.

Steve’s studio was so warm it was stuffy, and Bucky found himself unbuttoning his coat. “Be nice,” Darcy advised. “It’s good to build up his self-esteem a little. I hang his drawings on the fridge whenever he colors inside the lines.”

“Go back to work, Darce,” Steve murmured without looking up, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Hey, Buck.” His face was intent and serious as he rendered a sharp, clean line with his tattoo gun, then swiped at the fog of stray ink with his rag. 

“Hey, Rogers.” Bucky saw a stool nearby and perched himself on it so he could enjoy the masterpiece Steve created, hoping he didn’t look slack-jawed in awe. 

It was a full sleeve done in New School style, an aquarium of exaggerated fish and mer-creatures that slowly spread across her fair, unblemished skin. She was used to it, Bucky guessed; she didn’t wince at the sensation of the needle. 

“Just stopped by to see if you saw the sneaky bandit who vandalized our shop.”

“Yeah?” Steve asked, feigning incredulity. “That’s messed up. Hope they catch ‘em, Buck, but I’m sorry. I didn’t see a thing.”

“Yeah, they went and messed up both windows, after Clint and I and our new buddy, Steve, did all that work to rearrange the display the other day.”

“Tragic,” Steve added. He continued to shade a caecili in deep tones of turquoise and violet.

“Too bad you didn’t see him. Nick’s offering a reward.”

That made the gun stop buzzing. Steve pinned Bucky with a look. “Don’t know if that’ll help him find the guy.”

Bucky sighed, giving him a resigned smile. Steve looked… _so_ cute. In the warmth of the studio, he wore a dark gray henley made of soft, thick waffle knit and dark skinny jeans. His gloved fingers were stained with ink, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up; the collar was open at the throat, finally revealing those tattoos that had piqued Bucky’s imagination since they met. They were impressive, and from what he could tell at first glance, Steve had them _everywhere_. Bucky saw a lot of American Traditional on his forearms, which were fair, blue-veined and gracefully slim. American flags, eagles and red roses slicked over his skin; in the areas where his skin “breathed,” Bucky noticed a few sandy freckles. “Nick wants to pay you for the window.”

“Nope. On the house. I even signed it.” Steve kept outlining. “So, if he wants, Nick can tell anyone who asks that I take commissions once in a while. But he can keep his money, Buck.”

“You went to so much trouble.”

“I wanted to do it.”

Bucky flattered himself for a moment that he heard an unspoken “for you” in that claim. He remembered their conversation in the break room. “This is a great set-up you have here, Stevie.”

Steve huffed at the nickname, and a faint flush rose up and turned his ears pink. “Thanks. Home, sweet hovel.” Bucky heard the chime over the front door as someone came inside, and Darcy went back out to greet them, but then Bucky heard her amused, “It’s about time you showed up.”

“I’m a half an hour early for my first booking, I’ll have you know. And you _should_ know, since _you_ booked it, young lady.”

“God, don’t call me that. You sound like my mom,” Darcy complained as she followed the owner of that rich, deep alto back into the studio. Bucky gaped and looked up… up… _up_ at the tall, striking, medium-skinned Black woman who was sparely dressed despite the cold weather. “Hi, are you waiting for Steve, or are you an add-on for me?” Her blue eyes were kind and she shucked her black leather jacket as she waited for an introduction.

“Ro, this is Bucky. He works across the street at the bookstore.” She beamed at him, and her handshake was firm. Bucky saw elaborate, delicate patterns henna tattoed on her fingers and wrists. “She never goes by her whole first name, either. Because all my friends are too cool for school.”

“Short and sweet is a good thing,” she told him haughtily. “You won’t find ‘Ororo’ on a mug in the gift shop at Coney Island.”

“Sure won’t,” Bucky agreed. “I’m not a customer. Not any time soon, anyway.”

That piqued Steve’s interest enough for him to stop his gun. “Not ever?” If Bucky had to describe his expression, “stunned” was pretty apt. Bucky’s lips twitched.

“I don’t know if there’s anything I want on my body that I’ll take with me to the grave.”

“We’ve had so many happy customers who have walked out of here with gorgeous ink who started out saying that.” ‘Ro tipped over to the back wall, which was lined with magazines and sample books. “Here. Look through these while you’re hanging out.”

“I can’t hang out that… long.” Bucky “oof’ed” as she handed him the stack of binders, which he discovered were scrapbooks of Steve’s work. Each one was labeled on the front: Tattoo Shows, Cover-Ups, Sleeves, Prosthetics…

The last one, he set aside, feeling a funny flutter in his chest. ‘Ro tracked his expression, then he caught her eyes flick briefly to his gloved hand. “Just for kicks, give them a look,” she told him. “You might find something you like.”

“I always thought I’d get some ink after I graduated from high school. My folks would have killed me if I had while I still lived at home.” Bucky opened up the one that said “Cover-Ups,” and he whistled at the before and after photos taped to each cellophane-protected page. “Wow.” He saw a lot of scratchy, faded, bluish tats that had been covered with Steve’s flawless designs. 

“People come in with stuff they regret,” Steve murmured as he went back to work. He urged his subject to turn a little for him so he could get the side of her upper arm. “It’s nice to give them an upgrade.”

Bucky’s expressions changed as he turned each page, going just as quickly from simply impressed to awestruck, and occasionally amused. “Right. There’s an ass.” 

“I keep telling Darcy to zoom in more when she takes those, and just get the tat itself, not the crack.”

“So in other words, you tell her to say no to crack?” Bucky deadpanned.

“Booooooooooo,” Steve’s subject jeered, but she was grinning, and Steve snickered.

“I’ll be here all week,” Bucky assured them.

“About that.” Steve paused and peeked at Bucky through his glasses, biting his lip. “Are you gonna be around tonight? I was just gonna get take-out, but… I dunno. Maybe we could head to that pho place that opened up on Ninth?”

Darcy was smiling into her coffee cup, and ‘Ro was looking the teensiest bit smug as she neatened her tattoo station. 

“I could go for some pho,” Bucky considered. He gathered up the binders when he realized that he was overstaying his welcome (and toying with Nick’s patience). “I’ll put these back.”

Steve looked disappointed, but he nodded. “Just leave them there, Buck. Thanks for stopping by. Hey, Darce?” 

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Can you give Bucky a business card?” 

“You want me to stop here at a specific time, or…?”

“Text me. I have a back piece later this afternoon. We might end up eating late, if that’s okay with you.”

“That’ll work.”

“That card has my cell on it.” Bucky smiled crookedly down at the card Darcy handed him. _Inkfatuation Tattoo and Dermagraphic Studio_.

“Cute.”

“I thought it was catchy,” Steve mused.

“I’d better hightail it out of here. Nick’ll give me the evil eye if I stick around.”

“I believe you. Your boss is awesome, but I almost pissed my pants when I met him the first time.”

“Sounds like a fun guy,” Darcy said dubiously as she plucked up a dainty handful of M&Ms from a nearby bowl using her daggerlike fingernails. 

“You don’t know the half of it.”

*

When Bucky got back to the store, Nick had even more fun in store for him. “Go ahead and clean the rest room and restock the toilet paper in the second stall.”

“It’s Clint’s turn.”

“Already doing something,” Clint sang as he continued to neaten the used CD racks, re-alphabetizing the ones that customers left in the wrong slots. Bucky made a face and headed back to the head, grabbing the Comet, X-14 and the mop. Bucky took his time, even if the job wasn’t his favorite, since it gave him more time alone to revisit his time in Steve’s shop. Steve invited him out to dinner. It was official.

Steve liked Bucky. A pleased little smile kept sneaking back onto his face. Then Bucky caught sight of himself in the mirror as he was scrubbing the sink. 

He considered his reflection for a minute. There were faint shadows under his eyes; sleep wasn’t always his friend. He was still fit, even though he bulked up a little during winter, and some of his shirts were tighter across the chest. Same face that he’d been told was cute (Brock used to call it pretty, but there was always a note of derision when he said it, especially right before they split). Same little creases in his forehead from raising his eyebrows; Bucky wouldn’t regret a few laugh lines; if he could laugh, then he could manage another day. Rule of thumb.

He thought of Steve’s binder of Prosthetic pieces. He hadn’t been in the right space to look at it, but…

Bucky lifted up the hem of his shirt, then shrugged his left arm all the way out of it. 

Same old scars striating his flesh in long, jagged pink tears radiating out from his shoulder. The stump of his left arm reached five inches below his shoulder. His prosthetic was lightweight, an improvement from the one the orthotics company originally fitted him with, but he was still getting used to it. By the end of the day, the remaining muscles were always tense and sore, and the socket chafed his skin. 

Steve liked him. So far.

_So far._

*

 

The day stretched at a naggingly slow pace, and Bucky was pacing, constantly staring out the front door of the book shop for any possible glance of Steve. Clint kept looking up at him and shaking his head.

“You’re pitiful, man. You’re whipped already.”

“Don’t know why we can’t just close early. There’s nothing left to do,” Bucky griped. He tidied the shelves, put away the returns, and helped Nick with some filing in the back. The work shift no longer felt constructive, and Bucky was waiting on tenterhooks to clock out. 

“If we haven’t gotten anyone in the past hour, I don’t see what difference another hour will make,” Nick agreed. “I want to take the deposit to the bank before the rush hour crowd swamps the line.” He was already in his jacket, and Bucky honestly wanted to kiss him. “Take an hour paid. Don’t say I never gave either of you a Christmas gift.”

“Sweet!” Clint was already rushing back to the break room for his coat. “Get to hang out with my lady!”

“Going to get some Christmas shopping done, Barnes?” Nick inquired.

“Um. No. I have plans for dinner.”

Clint wheeled back around, eyes round and full of glee. “Aw, you sly dog!”

Bucky’s cheeks went up in flames again. “Barton. Shut up.”

But Nick smirked, too. “It’s a work night. Still expect you here bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow morning. Don’t have too much fun.” Then Nick added, “And I don’t want to hear the details, either. But, have fun.”

“Thanks,” Bucky muttered before he dashed to get his stuff and clock out. He flipped the closed sign around and locked up the register while Clint turned off all the lights and locked up the back. That gave him an hour to gather himself together and make himself presentable. Bucky made his way down the block, passing Steve’s shop, but Steve wasn’t in the front lobby, and Darcy was busy at the reception desk. Bucky descended the stairs to the subway and managed to catch the red line to the underground mall. It was time to do some impulse shopping.

*

Bucky made it back to his apartment, laden with string-handled bags, and Sam looked up from his DVR’ed episode of _Shameless_. “Did you get off early?”

“Yup.” Bucky tossed his jacket and wallet aside and headed back to his room, shucking his clothes as soon as he reached it. He picked up the bath towel he’d discarded that morning and sniffed it, making a face, but he still wrapped himself in it and ran himself a shower. He stopped back at his bed room and removed his arm, plugging it back into its charger. 

“You going out?” Sam called.

“Yup,” he called back, a little too cheerfully.

“Going out, on a _date_?” Sam specified. 

“If it does that well, yup,” Bucky confirmed, yelling over the sound of the spray. He minced his way under it, yelping as it took its time to warm itself above “glacial.” He made quick work of his hair, mashing some conditioner into it and being a little overenthusiastic with the Old Spice shower gel. It just felt...good. The prospect of being invited on a date - a real date, not a hookup, not a set-up, not a random, drunken one-nighter - appealed to him. Excited him. And there was just something about the way that Steve looked at him that made his stomach flip.

Maybe Bucky was getting his hopes up, but it felt… nice.

Steve was… _nice_.

Some time later, Bucky was shaved, arm back on, dressed in his new outfit, his mouth rinsed in Scope and his hair in a fresh ponytail, and Sam wolf-whistled at him, just to give him shit. “Ladies and gentlemen, hold onto your panties,” Sam cheered. “I’d do you.”

“It’s just dinner.” But Bucky was pleased.

“Hey, I’d even buy you dinner first,” Sam allowed. “But, yeah. You put in this much effort, Barnes, and I’d bring you back to knock some boots.”

“Hey...that being said, I’m not bringing him back here tonight.”

Sam shrugged. “Thanks for keeping me informed. That doesn’t go unappreciated, James.” Because there had been “incidents” when the two of them failed to communicate in the past; even now, Sam insisted on covering the couch with a blanket, constantly reminding Bucky that “I don’t even know where y’alls asses have _been._ ” Bucky gave Sam the Eyebrows of Judgment regarding a similar episode of Sam and his own overnight guest, asking him not-so-innocently, “Is the table fit to eat off of, Mr. Wilson? Or will we need the Lysol?” Sam craned himself around in his chair and hung his arm off the back of it, grinning at him. “Hope the date’s worth the amount of hair product you just sacrificed. Looks like about a buck-fifty’s worth of Paul Mitchell.”

“Takes a lot of product to make my hair look like I didn’t even comb it,” Bucky confessed. “Anyway. I’m out.” He met Sam’s fist-bump and took off, butterflies still fluttering in his chest. He rode the subway back downtown, a smile toying at his lips as the train rumbled through dark tunnels, throwing flickering shadows over his skin. Passerby snuck looks at him from over the edges of newspapers and Kindles, wondering why he looked so smug but leaving him to it.

Bucky almost wondered if he’d pushed it a little, showing up as late as he did, until Darcy let him inside with an apologetic look. “Steve’s still not done with that back piece.”

“Can I wait for him out here?”

“Darce,” Steve called out, and Bucky felt his excitement spike again. “Is that Bucky?”

“Uh-huh. Yeah, Boss.”

“Bring him back. I want him to see this. And offer him a drink.”

“Dude,” Darcy told Bucky before letting him back, “I’ve got, like, ten different kinds of tea. It’s cold season, so I keep a shitload of it.”

“I’m fine. Actually…”

“How about some white tea? It’s good. This one has some pear in it.”

“That sounds good.”

“Go. Hang out with Boss Man while I make it.” She trusted him not to get lost, and Bucky headed back into the studio. He saw that Ororo was already gone, and her station was clean, but Steve was hunched over and working on his back piece. His customer was _enormous_ , broad and brawny, and his back was covered in a NASCAR-inspired mural of hot rods and checkered flags, with a pin-up girl in seventies hot pairs and Farrah-feathered curls waving a starter flag in the center of it all. Steve had finished the outline so far, and Bucky was anxious to see it in color.

“You about ready to tap out for tonight, buddy?” Steve asked his canvas, who woke up from a faint doze.

“Only if you’re kicking me out. I was in the zone.”

“I know, McCoy. Thing is, I promised this guy dinner…” and Steve paused to look Bucky over, silently mouthing “Wow.” “And I don’t wanna keep him waiting.”

“I get the ‘hangries’ when I don’t get fed,” Bucky admitted, and he kept his hands in his pockets to avoid the urge to preen under Steve’s gaze.

“Uh-oh. That being said, I’m gonna beat feet.” The man stood, and Bucky noticed more of Steve’s handiwork spanning his chest and down along his ribs. He had a square-jawed, large-featured face and kind blue eyes. His shaggy haircut and heavy sideburns reminded Bucky a little of Logan. “Name’s Hank.” Bucky shook his hand, wincing a little at his too-firm grip, but at least his hands were warm. 

“That’s a great piece, so far,” Bucky told him.

“This guy.” He nodded at Steve. “I get all my ink here. I don’t want anyone else touching my skin. He’s the master. Check this out.” And he pointed to his rib piece, directing Bucky’s attention to a scar that he managed to work into a design, making the jagged, raised strip of skin look like it was one of the ribs of an ornate pirate ship. “Got stabbed five years ago.”

“Wow,” Bucky murmured.

“Wanted something to celebrate living through it. That’s when I came to see this guy.” Steve applied the dressings to cover the tattoos once he had the chance to admire them in the full-length mirror on the wall, nodding his approval. “Same time next week?”

“Yup. Darce already has you penciled in, Hank.”

“Can’t wait. I can’t wait.” He shook Steve’s hand and brought him in for a one-armed bro hug. Darcy came in with Bucky’s cup of tea and set it down, while Hank reached into his wallet and pulled out a wad of fifties. Bucky’s eyebrows flew up into his hairline when he smoothed them out and slapped down _all_ of them for Darcy to collect. She wrote him a receipt out of the ledger book as Hank donned the rest of his clothes. 

When Hank left, Steve turned to Bucky as he stripped off his ink-stained gloves. “You realize that you’re standing here, looking all hot, while I’m a hot _mess_. It’s kinda unfair.”

“Doesn’t really sound like you’re complaining, when you give me a compliment like that.”

“Compliment?” Steve shook his head, but he gave Bucky a lopsided smile. “Just tellin’ ya what you’ve gotta already know, Buck.”

“Maybe I wanna hear it from you, Steve.”

Behind his lenses, Steve’s eyes went dark with want. “You’re gorgeous.”

Bucky bit his lip. Steve’s eyes tracked the gesture with interest. “You gonna get your coat?” Bucky asked.

“Let me just clean this up.”

Bucky drank the tea - barely sipping it, it was _hot_ \- while Steve neatened up his station, cleaned his gun and needles, and put away his inks. He went to put on his coat, and Bucky helped hold it for him, just for the opportunity to touch him. “So polite,” Steve told him. Their fingers brushed as Bucky smoothed down Steve’s coat collar, just as Steve was flattening the lapel, and Bucky felt more sparks.

“I like giving you a hand.”

Steve licked his lips. “Do you?” Bucky felt heat flare in his belly and went half-hard at the sound of Steve’s voice.

Dinner was going to _kill_ him.

*

The subway ride found them in a crowded car, sharing a pole, standing a little close out of necessity; whenever the car lurched away from the stop, they bumped shoulders or elbows, and their fingers frequently touched. Steve smelled good, like detergent and some piny, herbal shampoo. They both made “after you” motions at each other when they reached the escalator, Steve finally backing down and preceding Bucky, maybe preening a bit at the feel of his hand against his lower back, another point of contact that lingered longer than it needed to. They walked at a brisk pace, only slowing down when Bucky heard Steve panting.

“You okay?”

“S’cold out. Makes my asthma flare a little, sometimes.”

“Geez. Speak up, Stevie. I won’t haul ass if you’re out of breath. M’sorry.”

“It’s okay. I want to get inside, too. I don’t blame you.” And Steve’s cheeks were a little flushed, and the tip of his nose was pink, and he looked adorable to Bucky. It was doing terrible things to his self-restraint. “I’m starved.”

Bucky laughed. “Me, too.”

The pho house had a line at the counter, but the seating area wasn’t packed yet. They made their way inside and read the menu selections behind the counter as they began to move up. Steve’s breathing sounded less thready and uneven as they began to warm up. The server at the counter took their order to eat in for two orders of noodles with beef and gave them two tall, brown plastic cups to fill at the soda dispensers. Steve took their folded number tent while Bucky filled their drinks, telling him briefly “Sprite’s fine” before excusing himself to the men’s. He set the number on a table in the back, far enough away from the draft of the door, and quiet enough so they could hear each other talk.

Steve came back and chuckled when Bucky got up to pull out his chair for him. “Still so polite.”

“You’re not gonna break me of this.”

“You had strict parents.”

“Sure did. And my grandma lived at home with us. I had a lot of practice.”

“I’m impressed,” Steve told him as he sat down, letting Bucky gently push his chair in.

“Good. Because I know I’m gonna do it again.”

Steve ducked his face and grinned, and Bucky felt warm all over. 

They ate, occasionally sharing off each other’s bowls and splitting an order of spring rolls. Steve ended up telling Bucky “the long version” of how he got into tattooing, how he ended up assuming the lease on his shop from the previous owner who used to run a massage parlor that was also a “rub and tug,” and that his health issues made his previous career goals unfeasible. 

“I was actually gonna go into nursing. Already met all the prerequisites at my JC. My mom was a nurse, and they always took good care of me when I ended up in the pedes unit with half of the stuff that was wrong with me. But it was hell on my back, and sometimes I just couldn’t move fast enough. I was a nurse’s assistant on a shift and was bedsitting a patient with ‘combative’ tendencies. I learned the hard way to only wear my badge on a reel clip instead of the lanyard. Guy almost strangled me with it. He was two hundred-fifty pounds. I got pretty banged up by the time I managed to hit the call light.”

“You could have gotten hurt!”

“I was more worried that he’d hurt himself. Or someone else.” Steve sighed, shrugging. “I still wanted to go into a field that would help people, I guess. Or at least… make them feel better about themselves. Make them feel in control.”

“Hank sure felt good about the work you did for him.”

“Hank. Yeah. He’s been a great customer. That wasn’t the only scar that he had. That wasn’t the first time he’s been stabbed.” Steve dragged his stub of spring roll through the small dish of hoisin sauce. “He hasn’t run out of skin yet. If I’m bein’ honest, Buck, I think he comes in as often as he does to make time with ‘Ro. He’s sweet on her, but she’s taken.”

“Hm. Guy goes into a tattoo shop to make time with the hot artist.” Bucky reached across the table, letting his fingertips graze Steve’s. Steve’s eyes flitted down to their hands, and he slid his closer, lacing their fingers together at the knuckles. “Can’t imagine that ever happening.”

“No?”

“Not at all. Never happen.” 

The other diners in the restaurant could see the sparks flying hot and bright between them, certainly. 

“Too bad Hank’s gonna have to live with disappointment,” Bucky added.

“Yeah. It is.”

And they shared a look between them, smoldering. Bucky stroked Steve’s knuckles with his thumb, and he was already hard as a rock.

“But, I don’t think you will,” Bucky admitted. 

Steve swallowed. His voice was full of grit and lust.

“Lucky me.”

*

Bucky kept his promise to Sam. They made their way across town, to _Steve’s_ , sharing more train cars, but this time huddling together on hard, vinyl seats, sharing warmth and catching their shared, uneven, racing pulse where they held hands. Back up the escalator they rose, this time almost sharing the same step, and they walked the rest of those scant few blocks to Steve’s apartment, a downstairs unit in a block of townhouses. 

“My roommate’s out of town,” Steve explained as he keyed his way inside, Bucky almost plastered up against his back, his hand resting against his waist. He fumbled a little with the key, laughing under his breath. “‘Course my hands don’t wanna work when I’m in a hurry to get in…”

“Take your time, Stevie,” Bucky told him, and his voice was a reassuring husk as he tugged him back for a moment, gently turned him by the shoulder to face him, and dipped down to kiss him, just a tempting, soft brush of his lips. Steve sighed into his mouth, and his fingers curled in Bucky’s coat collar as he pulled him closer. Steve teased him, returning the kiss with just enough intensity to tell Bucky _I’m definitely interested_. And that was how they ended up making out at Steve’s front door, key and chain still dangling from the doorknob, growing more heated and desperate until an onlooker’s rude whistle drove them inside. They stumbled into Steve’s dark foyer and kicked the door shut behind them, Steve collapsing back against it and pulling Bucky down to him for more hungry kisses. Steve opened for him, sucking Bucky’s lower lip between his teeth. Their breath mingled and teeth briefly clicked; Bucky’s hands quickly undid the buttons of Steve’s peacoat and reached inside, running his palms down Steve’s narrow, taut waist, slipping beneath the hem of his thermal shirt.

“S’cold in here, Stevie.”

“I don’t run the heat when I’m not home. I’ll crank it on in a sec. Just c’mere.”

Before Bucky could make any promise to warm Steve up, Steve was kissing him again, drugging, deep and possessive, and his hands were making short work of Bucky’s jacket and scarf, untwining it from his throat and dropping it on the floor. He cupped Bucky’s jaw in his hands, and they were chilled from the cold. “You’re so gorgeous,” Steve husked before he kissed him again.

“Gonna give me a big head, Stevie.”

“That ain’t all I’m gonna give ya, Buck.”

Bucky smothered a laugh, then groaned when Steve kissed him again, then urged him backward toward the back hall. Bucky barely even got a glance at the living room, but he saw frames on the walls and the edge of a beige tweed couch before they stumbled into Steve’s room. Steve kicked the door shut behind them and urged Bucky to sit on the edge of the bed, a full-sized mattress dressed in a thick green duvet. 

“I’m gonna turn on the heat. Stay put. Then I’m gonna get you under the covers.”

“I want to see the rest of your tattoos,” Bucky confessed. He caught Steve by the wrist and leaned up to kiss him again, reluctant to let him go.

“You will. Give me a minute.” Steve pecked Bucky’s forehead and eased himself free, and Bucky huffed in impatience as he heard his feet retreat down the hall. His jeans felt tight and uncomfortable from wanting Steve, and he kicked his shoes off in the meantime, setting them aside. As Steve returned, Bucky heard the heater kick on, and the air around them stirred, drafty at first as air hissed through the vents.

“C’mere.”

“Where were we?”

“Me, taking off your clothes so you can play show and tell.”

“Only if it’s your turn next.”

Bucky was pulling Steve to stand between his spread knees, and his smile faltered a moment. Steve caressed his cheek. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s… it’s nothing.”

“Did I say something wrong, sweetheart?”

“No. You didn’t.” Steve cupped Bucky’s cheeks and gently tipped his face up to meet his eyes.

“Hey. I like you. A lot, already.” Steve huffed a laugh and kissed Bucky’s hairline, then the space between his brows. Then the bridge of his nose, making Bucky’s smile gradually return. “I don’t wanna mess up and do anything or say anything jackassed straight out of the gate.”

“You already noticed this, right?” Bucky held up his left, gloved hand, and Steve saw, up close, the slight gap beween the edge of the glove and the end of Bucky’s sweater cuff where it revealed the metal joint of his prosthetic’s wrist.

“Yeah, Buck. I did.” He kissed the tip of Bucky’s nose. “Is it okay that I did?”

“Yeah.”

Steve cleared his throat. “Is it okay if I see the rest of it? Because it’s okay if you say no. It is.” The room slowly began to warm, and Bucky’s right arm was looped around Steve’s waist, palm warming him through the fabric of his shirt. “But I really want to take off your clothes and take my time with you and show you what a good time I’m having with you tonight.”

“You said you’d go first,” Bucky reminded him.

“I know. I did.”

“Then, you go first.” And Bucky’s mouth went dry when Steve took off his glasses, laying them on the side table, gazing down at Bucky with so much want.

“Whatever you want, Buck.” And those rosy, soft lips tasted Bucky’s again, nipping at him, teasing Bucky to stake his claim. Bucky made an indecent noise as he opened for Steve, letting his tongue sweep inside his hot mouth. Bucky’s left hand rested on Steve’s hip, but his right feathered over Steve’s abdomen, beneath his shirt, pausing then he felt the distinctive, faintly raised, slick texture of a scar there. Steve didn’t hesitate. He reached up behind his neck, clutching a handful of his shirt between his shoulder blades and pulling it off over his head. That rumpled his blond hair, making strands of it fall in disarray around his face - God, he was cute, Bucky thought again - and revealed his reed-thin torso to Bucky’s hungry gaze.

So many tattoos gracing that fair skin, mingling with scars of different origins. Bucky recognized one of them as an appendix scar, but the others… “I’ve been through some crazy shit, Bucky.”

“You’ve _lived_ through some crazy shit,” Bucky corrected him. 

The crowning glory of all these mementos was the long, verticle scar running down his sternum. “Had heart surgery. And later on, a nasty infection. Went into cardiac arrest. Three times. Kidneys shut down. They had to dialyze me for a month. That’s where they put the port.” He pointed to the scar beneath his sharp, knobby collarbone. Bucky didn’t touch it, and he wouldn’t without Steve’s permission. “I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a sternum spreader before, Buck. I caught a glimpse of one before I went under. They might as well have opened me up with a crow bar,” he said with a laugh, self-deprecating like the one at the front door.

The scar was old, and looked like it had been opened up more than once.

“I’m a mess, Bucky.”

“Not to me.” Bucky leaned in, breathing over Steve’s nipple, then sucked it between his teeth. Steve’s eyes shuttered and he hissed in pleasure, tangling his hands in Bucky’s hair. “Never to me, Stevie.” And he pulled Steve the rest of the way between his knees, bending his calf to lock him there. “Want you to tell me about every one of these tattoos.” And the scars, but that could come later, when they both just… had the chance to really _see_ each other. Feel comfortable. Not just _exposed_.

Steve was responsive. His skin warmed beneath Bucky’s touch, and Steve straddled Buck’s lap, enjoying the rough texture of Bucky’s sweater against his bare chest. Bucky’s mouth painted Steve’s throat with heat, the cords of muscle, the delicate road map of veins, those collarbones tattooed in several little stars in primary colors, the tender slope of his Adam’s apple. Beautiful. Steve was beautiful, face rapt with lust. Bucky groaned at the sensation of his ponytail elastic being pulled free, of Steve’s fingers sifting through his hair and scratching lightly at his nape. Bucky could spend as much time as Steve could give him having his hair stroked, combing his fingers through it… it was such a turn-on. They ground against each other, and their pants were becoming stifling, smothering their hard-ons and making them impatient. 

Bucky rolled Steve to his back, and Steve huffed at the sensation of having his world flipped on its ear. But he arched beneath Bucky, approving his warm bulk as it pressed him into the mattress. Those long hands gripped Bucky’s hips, hooking his thumbs through Bucky’s belt loops, and he ground up at Bucky roughly, making little shocks of desire run through him. Bucky kissed him hard, then dragged his mouth down Steve’s chin, down that pale, elaborately decorated throat, sucking a path down between those collarbones again, skirting past the sternum scar, because, _boundaries_... and down his flat abdomen, lapping at the sweet hollow of Steve’s navel. He jerked open the button of Steve’s jeans and tugged down the zipper, mouthing at the bulge swathed in the thin cotton of Steve’s briefs. Steve’s dick twitched eagerly, and Bucky was smiling as he breathed over it. Steve’s skin smelled warm and faintly musky, and Bucky wanted to taste him so _badly_.

“God, yer a tease, Buck.”

“You bring it outta me, Stevie. I want you. Want you so fucking much, and I’ve gotta get you out of these _damn pants._ ” Because of _course_ Steve had to wear skinny jeans. Bucky practically had a wrestling match with them as he eased back and tugged them all the way off by the cuffs. And Steve’s legs were slender and graceful and just as generously inked as the rest of him, lanky despite how short he was. The way they splayed apart, revealing that _bulge_ made Bucky salivate.

But he made Steve wait a minute while he got caught up, unbuttoning and dropping his own jeans and stepping out of them. Bucky tugged off his sweater, and his hair waterfalled down his face, a messy, gleaming tumble, and a tendril of it clung to the corner of his mouth. Steve licked his lips.

“Fuck.” Steve ran a soothing hand down his own dick just to calm himself for a moment. “Look at your fucking legs. You never skip leg day at the gym, do you?”

“Nope.”

“I wanna hate you for how hot you look right now, but… fuck that. I wanna ride those fucking thighs of yours, Bucky.” And Steve’s dirty mouth made Bucky’s dick strain for attention. “Look at you.”

“You can look at me, Stevie,” Bucky told him softly. “You can look all you want.” He wore a buttondown shirt and slowly undid each fastening, letting it hang open.

“Buck…!” Because if Bucky’s thighs already made Steve want to write them poetry, his twelve-pack made him want to compose Bucky a symphony. Bucky wore dark red briefs, and he was straining beneath them, and Steve saw a tiny dark, damp stain where he was leaking. For Steve. “I think I changed my mind. If you take that the rest of the way off… take off those fucking underpants… I might _flatline._ ”

“I know CPR.”

“Then you’d better take those fucking things off.”

*

They crawled under the duvet and explored each other, minutes dragging into hours once both pairs of briefs hit the floor. Bucky ground against Steve, unable to get enough of those deep, drugging kisses or the feel of his fingers tangling in his hair, tugging it, hands framing his cheeks. Steve’s eyes were glazed with passion, and he kept telling him, “So beautiful, Bucky,” whether it was rasped with his head thrown back into the pillows or mouthed into the flesh of Bucky’s throat. Bucky revisited Steve’s nipples - he loved them, hard, tannish-pink little buds - and made Steve arch against him with need as he dawdled over them. Steve’s nails lightly scratched down Bucky’s back through the thin fabric of his shirt, which he hadn’t removed yet, but he didn’t complain, not when he was enjoying that skilled mouth and its decadent slide over his belly, moving down the line of his groin with slow, light nips. Steve’s fingers gripped Bucky’s hair and almost _yanked_ when he engulfed the head of his cock, and Bucky made a shocked, pleased noise, a rough hum that Steve absorbed into his swollen flesh.

“Jesus, Buck,” he grated out. Bucky just took his time, his face straight out of Steve’s dirtiest dreams as he nursed the head in his mouth, cheeks sucked in and eyes closed. Steve’s hips jerked, pushing himself further into Bucky’s heat, and Bucky hummed in approval. Steve rode Bucky’s mouth, legs splayed open wide, with Bucky’s hand spread over Steve’s ribcage, feeling its sharp rise and fall. Coveting the lush, beautiful pictures that told the story of how Steve survived, of the things that failed to break him. Steve shuddered, letting Bucky take what he wanted from him until he came with a ragged cry, heedless of his neighbors. Bucky swallowed him down, eyes watering from the pulse of Steve’s dick down his throat, but he took everything Steve had, leaving him wrung dry and spent, panting and blissful.

Bucky was dazed, face just as glazed with pleasure as Steve’s when he feathered kisses over Steve’s quivering thigh. “Don’t,” Steve panted. “Too much. Feels good, but… gimme a minute.”

“Give you whatever you want. I like making you do that.” Bucky eased his way up and covered them both fully with the duvet, and Steve’s limbs coiled around him. He basked greedily in Bucky’s warmth; Steve’s contented sigh felt like a caress, and his palm followed suit, wandering over the smooth, sculpted contours of Bucky’s body.

“Felt good. You feel good,” Steve said into Bucky’s jaw. Bucky smiled as Steve peppered a line of kisses over that sensitive skin, nipping at the cleft. Then he glanced over at Bucky’s left shoulder. “Tuck yourself in. Gonna get a draft, babe.” Bucky’s arm was still resting just above the covers, creating a gap between Steve’s nape and the top of the duvet.

“It doesn’t really… get… cold.” The explanation felt like a bad fit in Bucky’s mouth. “I ache, sometimes. My shoulder. But the arm itself-”

“Oh.”

A tense silence settled between them, and Bucky’s right arm tightened around Steve. Bucky heard the wheels turning in Steve’s head.

“If you tuck it in, that’ll keep out the little patch of chill I’m getting on my neck. Then we’ll both be toasty.” Steve met Bucky’s look with a self-deprecating smile. “Sorry. I’m that guy who’s always getting cold. Pretty lame, huh?”

“Oh, my God, you delicate snowflake,” Bucky muttered, poking Steve in the ribs to make him squirm against him. Between them, Bucky’s dick had settled down slightly, but it twitched when Steve’s thigh grazed it, then slid against it deliberately. Bucky pulled his arm inside the covers and tucked the edge of the cover up around Steve’s ears, giving him a little pat like he was a child. That earned Bucky a groan of disgust.

“I’ll kick your ass out of this bed and let it freeze, Barnes, no matter how pretty it is. I know you didn’t just call me ‘delicate.’”

“I know you didn’t just call my ass ‘pretty.’”

“So, what if I did?” Steve challenged, and his thigh ground against Bucky again, kneading his neglected - now pulsing - flesh back to life while he toyed with Bucky’s rosy nipple. 

“I can already tell I’m gonna have my hands full with you,” Bucky complained, giving Steve an aggrieved sigh, but his eyes were full of heat, and he shifted Steve, pulling him over and draping his lean body over his own. Bucky slid his palm down Steve’s back, counting the bumps of his spine. He gave his ass a squeeze, a perfect fit for his hand, and Steve ground down against him, proving his earlier claim that he just needed “a minute” to let him recover. He was already showing signs of life below the waist, and Steve leaned down and engulfed Bucky’s mouth, licking into it hungrily with the promise that he intended to keep Bucky warm, too. Steve rode Bucky’s thighs, like he promised, bringing him off and leaving him quivering, shoulders still covered by his open shirt, but it framed the rest of his exquisite body, of his face, slack with bliss. The image burned itself into Steve’s memory, sacred and precious, as though he’d scratched it there in ink.

*

Steve set an alarm, and morning found them groggy and squinting awake in the dark, reluctant to leave the warmth of the covers or their shared embrace. “No,” Bucky whined, yawning.

“Fuck,” Steve agreed. “No fair. Feels too good. Wanna call off so bad right now.”

“You can’t. You’re the boss.”

“I know. Don’t make me adult right now, Bucky.”

“Someone’s gotta. I’ve might have to Uber if I stick around too long-”

“Uh-uh. We’ll both take the train.”

“Still need to change clothes.”

“Why? Those aren’t even the ones you wore to work yesterday,” Steve pointed out as he smoothed Bucky’s hair back from his face, smirking at the pillow crease imprinted in his cheek. “No one ever told you that it’s not legal to look as cute first thing in the morning as you do right now, pal.”

“That’s sweet. But if I don’t comb my hair, I’m gonna clock in looking like Sasquatch. You can keep buttering me up, though.” Bucky fought Steve’s attempts at getting out of bed, tugging him beneath him for a proper, thorough good morning.

“You can shower here, if you want,” Steve breathed. They both had halitosis strong enough to knock down a moose at fifty paces, but neither of of them gave a shit. Steve gripped Bucky’s hips and let him grind down against him, tempting him with round three.

“Just a quick one.”

“Want breakfast?”

“We can stop for something, Stevie. We don’t have much time-”

“I wanna do it for you.”

Bucky huffed, then smoothed back Steve’s hopelessly flyaway lick of dark blond bangs. “Okay.”

“Okay. Towels are in the hall closet. You can shower first. ‘Cuz if I get in with you, we’ll never get to work on time.”

He’d effectively shot down Bucky’s suggestion before he could make it. Bucky was almost relieved. He wasn’t quite ready for Steve to see all of him, yet. To be quite that exposed, even though Steve’s eyes ate him up, everything in his expression was reverent and admiring.

Bucky rolled off of him, and Steve gave him one last kiss before he scuttled out of the bed to turn the heater back on. Bucky was treated to his rear view, and he grinned at the sight of that sweet, tiny ass and all of the tattoos that didn’t skip those pert mounds, either. He also saw another scar, this one between his shoulder blades, just over the column of his spine. That one intrigued him. Steve came back and rummaged through his drawers, his movements making his dick bob slightly.

“Get your mind out of the gutter and get ready for work, Barnes!”

“You’re makin’ it hard, Rogers.”

“Am not.”

“Are, too.”

“Then tell it to behave!”

Because they were both _still horrible._ Steve tugged on an undershirt and hopped into his fresh pair of briefs. He headed to the kitchen like that, still in yesterday’s socks, and Bucky heard the yank of cabinets and the refrigerator door, of a skillet thunking down onto a burner. That got him up. He picked up his briefs and headed for the bathroom, stopping by the hall closet for that towel like Steve suggested. 

Bucky ran the water and caught his reflection in Steve’s mirror, an old panel with cracked edges and rusting around the corners, flecked with toothpaste overspray near the sink taps. His arm. He’d have to take it off. It was the same dilemma when he stayed the night with someone new. Bucky sighed, resigned, and removed his arm, wrapping it up in his shirt to keep it dry and laying it on top of the vanity. Bucky stepped into the spray and gave himself a cursory scrubbing with Steve’s shower gel and Head and Shoulders shampoo, which _claimed_ to have conditioner in it but would nevertheless leave Bucky’s hair dry as straw. He made a mental note to himself to bring a bottle of Nexxus to leave there, if Steve invited him back.

_When_ , Bucky’s inner voice of reason prodded. “If” wasn’t indicated when you woke up to slow cuddles and the offer of breakfast. It already wasn’t a one-nighter; Steve had set him an alarm, and they were riding to work together.

That left what was between them subject to Bucky’s Dating Guide and Identification Table:

The One-Nighter: These happened less frequently as Bucky found himself on the business end of his late twenties. They went hand in hand with the Walk of Shame and finding his clothes in the dark, or hearing his date trying to sneak out but leaving his apartment door ajar. Sam reamed him for it, reminding him that any nutjob could have snuck in and murdered them both in the wee hours. (“Tell the next one to let you see him out. They’re called dead bolts, Barnes.”)

The Brief Experiment: These were more typical for Bucky following a Dry Spell. He went into a Brief Experiment hopefully, maybe not wearing rose-colored glasses, but at least making an effort at small talk and mindful listening. If it failed to launch by the second date, or if the launch didn’t result in a repeat engagement between the sheets, then no harm, no foul. 

The Fling: By Bucky’s definition, a Fling never lasted longer than six weeks. They were characterized by name-dropping (“You’re having your birthday dinner at Luccio’s on the sixth? Is it okay if I bring Tim?” “Y’know what, I don’t know what Tim’s doing, let me get back to you.”), a little extra attention to grooming, couple selfies by Date Number Four, and hanging on each other’s words for even the most mundane of topics. (“I stood in line at the DMV behind a guy who had a birthmark shaped like Squirtle. A Squirtlemark. Is that a thing? If it’s not, it should be.”) Right before Week Seven, the Fling lost steam when text messages took a little too long to return, or when Sam, Clint and Nat stared at him in confusion when he accepted plans to go out with them without hesitation. (“What, no Tim?” “Who?”)

The Honest Attempt: These snuck up on Bucky every once in a while, and by the time he realized he was in the middle of it, it was too late. A Honest Attempt on his part was a mind fuck of monumental proportions. Loneliness was usually the culprit. Sometimes, a platonic friend, through some trick of chance, gave him pause, maybe made him see an attraction, just some spark that he didn’t notice before. Maybe joking around turned to flirting, once he read it for what it was. Maybe he ignored those voices of reason in his head that “friends kiss, sometimes.” (They didn’t typically make out like junior high schoolers on a gym dance floor, because that crossed a line.) Maybe he was fixed up with a friend of a friend of a friend, and they hit it off. Maybe the decision to just be “casual” didn’t take into account “casually” seeing that person a few times a week, or being mindful of which side of the bed they liked to sleep on, or remembering not to put walnuts in their cookies when you baked any, because they were allergic. 

The Honest Attempt was always a little too good to be true. Comfortable like an old shoe, until it wasn’t. Like it had been with Brock. 

Everything seemed harmless, at first. Brock saw Bucky at a friend’s bachelor party and took the groom aside, asking what Bucky’s “situation” was. And Bucky might have noticed the scruffy, darkly handsome guy with the killer shoulders and knife-sharp bone structure giving him the eye all night. He might not have hated it. It didn’t hurt that they went to the same gym, could quote a lot of the same stupid movies, and that Brock had UFC tickets for a Saturday night that Bucky just so happened to be free. The chemistry was instant. The first few times, Brock was eager, even if it lacked a little tenderness, but it was nothing Bucky couldn’t work around, or a deal breaker.

It was the little things, after a while. While they were in the honeymoon phase, Brock had given Bucky a lot of random compliments, crowding into his space. Marking all of the empty places in his calendar before Bucky could consider plans with anyone else. (“My brother’s gonna be in town. We’re meeting him for dinner. Get that green shirt of yours back from the cleaners, ‘kay?”) Bucky didn’t mind cooking dinner if they never had a plan to go out, but he hated Brock getting him amped up for a date at the new Thai place if he was going to show up a half an hour late, and ask “I thought you were going to fix something?” after a cursory glance at Bucky’s cold, empty stove. 

By the time the gloss wore off, Bucky was tired, asking himself why he was holding on, ignoring the tables of pros and cons that he made for himself (or that Sam made for him, insisting that he wasn’t judging Bucky for drawing things out, but _come on_ ) and wondering when they would get over their rough patch. Having someone to warm the space on the other side of his bed wasn’t enough for Bucky to keep suffering Brock and his little jabs that he kept taking at him, and the little details that he loved to forget, or just plain ignore. Bucky started ducking Brock’s kisses; some mean little voice in his head insisted that Brock actually _tasted_ wrong. It was never a good idea to ignore The Voice. The Voice knew what the hell it was talking about. Bucky and Brock finally went out to dinner one night - after weeks of passive aggressive bickering - and the waiter smiled at Bucky and asked him “Will it be the usual?”

“Um.” Bucky smiled up at him in confusion.

The server turned to Brock expectantly. “He always gets the chicken parm, doesn’t he?”

Brock’s eyes looked panicked, but he recovered quickly. “I’ve been meaning to tell him about it, but he’s more of an alfredo kinda guy, right, hon?”

That was all Bucky needed to know. “I’ll just get the side salad with the vinaigrette. And the vanilla seltzer.”

Because the universe wasn’t done toying with him, Bucky waited for Brock to finish his shower, and he heard Brock’s phone beep with an incoming text. He sighed, resigned, and clicked “Okay.” (It was a Nokia flip phone, ancient enough that it didn’t have a lock screen.) 

_Miss you. When are we doing lunch again?_

Chicken Parm Guy. Okay.

Brock didn’t hold back when they split. No filter, no tact, no apologies, and nothing but insults for Bucky once he called him out for cheating. Brock told him he was “being nice” accepting Bucky’s arm, and that Bucky was “ungrateful.” Sam took one look at Bucky’s red-rimmed eyes the night that Bucky came back from Brock, reached down to ruffle his hair, and blasted through their apartment, gathering up Brock’s crap into a box. Sam duct-taped it shut without the benefit of bubble wrap and shot down Bucky’s protests that he should just let Brock pick it up, taking it out to UPS and shipping it to Brock’s office, dirty drawers and all. Even though he only worked ten minutes away from Bucky and Sam’s apartment.

And that left one last chapter in Bucky’s Relationship Guide, one not re-read often enough to be dog-eared yet.

The Real Deal, the Whole Shebang, the What Took This So Long?:

The pages were filled with what-ifs, everything on them theoretical, because Bucky hadn’t been here yet. A few near misses gave him false hope, jaded him and made him assume that too much of it was a problem with _him_. That _all_ of it was. Bucky could be charming. Bucky could be a giving partner in bed. Bucky could say and do the right things and pretend that he didn’t have “that much” baggage, but he needed to hide the slow-spinning carousel behind the curtain. Brock knew how to hurt him, because Bucky showed him how. Shared too much with him of what chafed and revealed old wounds.

It was so tempting to give in to whatever this was with Steve, to whatever it _could_ be. Bucky didn’t know how much he could invest in it, how long he could let it last before it began to unravel. His sigh echoed back at him from the shower tile.

He slapped off the water dials and toweled himself off, taking extra care to dry his stump.

“Bucky?” That was Steve’s voice outside the door, startling him out of his dark thoughts, but Bucky smiled when Steve didn’t crack it open, giving him full privacy.

“Yeah?”

“How do you want your eggs?”

“Dry as a bone.”

“So help me. You’re a heathen.”

“Hey, you asked.”

“Yeah, I’ll blame myself, then. You’re lucky you’re cute, Barnes.”

Bucky snickered to himself as he went back to drying himself and getting dressed.

Steve met him at the dinette table, where he pulled out Bucky’s chair with ridiculous aplomb and set a plate of hard-scrambled eggs and toast before him. “Breakfast, kind sir.”

“I saved you some hot water.”

“Darcy will thank you. She questions my grooming habits even on the best of days.”

“Knew I liked her,” Bucky mused. Steve fondly stroked Bucky’s hair as he took a bite of his eggs. “This is good. Thanks, Stevie.”

“Dig in.” He kissed Bucky’s temple and rushed off to get himself ready. Bucky only noticed the scent of fresh coffee, hearing the perking hiss to a stop just as the bathroom door clicked shut.

“Definitely not a one-nighter,” Bucky told his plate as he reached for the depleted stub of Blue Bonnet margarine.

*

Sam’s expression held nothing back when he returned home after his shift.. “Just dinner, huh?” He mock-pleaded with Bucky to spare him the details. Bucky - _gleefully_ \- didn’t. 

He didn’t linger long in their apartment, though. Bucky had to iron his shirt. Steve was taking him out to dinner again, despite spending most of the afternoon texting Bucky at work, making his face light up with smiles that he couldn’t suppress. He ignored the gagging noises from Clint, too, and found himself startling any time Nick barked at him to help a customer. 

He couldn’t take his mind off of Steve.

*

 

Spending a week of constant dates, texting, Snapchats, Netflixing and having intimate sex that was nothing short of _devout worship_ made Bucky toss out any chance that this thing with Steve was an Experiment. They’d proven the hypothesis: They clicked. Sam and Steve hit it off just as well as Steve and Clint had, and Nat quit intimidating Steve on purpose. Sam and Steve actually developed a friendship characterized by good-natured name calling and insults. Sam would demand “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Rogers?” while he was dishing Steve up a plate at the dinner table. The most that he’d given Brock was a saccharine smile that spoke volumes to the right person that he’d despised him. Sam wasn’t quite at the “Bringing Company Home” stage yet of dating Monica, a stunning accountant he’d met at a conference, and that left Steve and Bucky a little flexibility of where they spent their nights. Steve’s roommate, Thor, was sickeningly cheerful in the morning and a bit of a slob, but he didn’t flinch when he walked into the kitchen in the middle of the night and found Bucky naked at the sink, grabbing a quick glass of water. Bucky nearly had a heart attack at the sound of Thor’s key in the door, having just returned from a late flight. Steve was back in his room, snoring softly after Bucky tucked him back in, pulling the covers up around Steve’s ears. He took off his henley with the intent to change into a lighter tee, since Steve’s duvet and blankets sometimes made him sweat. That left him there, in his birthday suit, spinning and trying to hide himself behind the edge of the counter. Thor’s eyes flitted over him, then crinkled. He saw Bucky’s arm, told him they had better glasses in the cupboard than the plastic fast food tumbler Bucky had grabbed, and bade him good night. 

Bucky felt guilty. He still felt the same hangups about Steve seeing his arm… seeing the scars. His boyfriend’s - he thought of Steve as his boyfriend, so that knocked out the possibility that this was just a Fling, now, too - roommate saw him in all of his ~~so-called~~ glory. So it made little sense that Bucky held onto the assumption, somehow, that Steve wouldn’t… wouldn’t want him as much. That he somehow wouldn’t-

The chance of being less in Steve’s eyes, of him rejecting him if he saw that part of him, unfiltered, uncovered, petrified Bucky.

Steve always cuddled up against Bucky’s right side, without being asked. He never mentioned it when Bucky only hugged him with that arm. Sam trotted out an old high school yearbook and showed him Bucky’s senior photo, unfortunate Morrissey haircut, braces, Swatch watch and all. Bucky, with both of the arms he was born with, young and confident, no shadows in his eyes. 

“That look was all the rage,” he told him as Steve lingered over that page before turning to the Extracurricular Clubs pages to see Sam and Bucky in the Honor Society and Sam in the Chess Club.

“I would’ve pined over you from afar. And I would’ve probably tried to sketch you in study hall,” Steve admitted.

That brought Bucky’s sad little smile back to its full wattage. “Okay. Are you saying you would’ve been my stalker?”

“Geez. Not… in so many words.” Steve turned red as a raspberry and ducked his face, but Bucky poked him in the ribs.

“You would’ve pined for me!”

“You two are so gross,” Sam sighed.

“I would’ve made you at least one mixed tape,” Steve added, and he didn’t even duck when Sam tossed the throw pillow at him, making a sound of disgust. They continued to flip through the hardcover book, trying to translate the vague messages in the senior blurbs. Sam went into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich.

“You wouldn’t have given me the time of day back then,” Steve mused.

“Says who?”

Steve chuckled, rubbing his nape. “I wasn’t the pillar of male virility and staggering fitness that you see before you.”

Bucky nuzzled him behind his ear. “I had a thing for emo, artsy little blondes, but they were usually too cool for me. I liked this cute girl named Esme who wore a lot of black eyeliner and who had The Smiths’ lyrics scribbled all over her book covers and drew pictures on her jeans with a Sharpie.”

“That didn’t work out?”

“Steve. You saw my senior photo. What do you think?” Bucky smiled at the memory. “She wasn’t into me. Just as well, in hindsight. I was still figuring out who I was.”

“I missed a lot of school when I had my surgeries. I was able to stop wearing my brace after the doctor at Stanford fixed my back.”

Bucky’s palm splayed itself over the scar absently. “You wore a brace before that?”

“Yeah. It was a pain. Had to buy my clothes really big. Nothing covered it.” Steve cleaned his glasses with the edge of his tee. “I didn’t like standing out. Hated being different. Even when kids weren’t giving me shit about it, it felt weird when anyone wanted me to talk about it.”

Bucky could have taken the invitation to open up about his old wound. Instead, he kissed Steve, got up and retrieved his laptop so they could watch Netflix.

*

Bucky continued to visit Steve’s shop over the coming weeks. The flow of customers wanting new ink swelled into his studio as the weather began to warm up. “Sun’s out, guns out,” Darcy reminded Bucky when he pointed it out. He finally met Ororo’s girlfriend, Emma, when she stopped by one night at closing time, sitting in Ororo’s work chair like she owned it but refusing to touch anything else. Bucky found her cool demeanor off-putting, but he noticed she was fond of Steve, and the two of them bickered about _everything_. Emma was into homeopathic medicine, macrobiotic diets, Pilates, and everything that had fifty self-help books written about it on Amazon. She chided Steve for his poor eating habits and kept nagging him to go to her acupuncturist.

“The day I pay somebody to stick me full of needles, Em, is the day you get in my chair and let me give you a portrait tat of Ororo’s pretty face wherever she tells me to put it.”

“I could think of creative places for you to put it.” Ororo’s smile was sly. Emma was unamused.

“Remind me why I like you, again?”

“Not here,” Ororo purred as she sterilized her piercing tools. Steve snickered while he put the last sale in the ledger and gave it to Darcy.

Bucky knew why. All anyone had to see was Emma’s cool blue eyes tracking Ororo’s movements around the tiny studio, her smile shy and fond every time she was caught. Oh, yeah. Bucky knew why.

 

*

They would cook together. Or, Steve would cook, and Bucky would wrap himself around Steve’s back like a bathrobe while Steve stirred his skillet.

“I put a few new shots in my binders today. Remember that expo I did in Dallas? I printed those,” Steve told him. “People are really into black and gray portraits of their pets, lately. I did three of ‘em this week.”

“Bet they look sweet.”

“Darce said she’d hang ‘em on the refrigerator, so I’d have more confidence in my...self.”

Bucky’s left arm settled around Steve’s abdomen, palmed curled around the edge of his waist, mirroring the embrace of the right. Steve set down the spatula, hesitating. Bucky kissed his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin.

“I’ll hang your stuff on my fridge, baby.”

“See? That’s why we get along, Buck. You validate me.” 

Steve’s hand hovered over Bucky’s arm before he tentatively stroked his wrist.

“Can you feel it when I do that?” he asked, a slight catch in his voice.

“I can sense the pressure. I can wrap my arm around you. I could hold your hand. It… it’s not-”

_It’s not the same._ Bucky still felt his phantom arm, still dreamt of the night he lost it, still wanted… he wanted to feel Steve with both hands, the smoothness of his skin and his waves of soft hair. He wanted to shower with him and loll around in a hot bath with Steve in the nook between his legs, tucked against his chest. That urge didn’t go away, and it was so hard. Bucky didn’t want to share those thoughts with Steve, open that box of memories and lay them at his feet. Steve had been through so many things himself, and-

“Hey.” The voices in Bucky’s head were silenced by the caress of Steve’s hand against his jaw. “Bucky. Talk to me. Something’s eating at you. You can talk to me about it, if you want.”

Bucky’s sigh was wet. He nuzzled Steve’s palm, urging Steve to cup and massage its stubbled curves. “I’m trying to share things with you. I want to, Stevie.”

“I know.”

“Some of it still hurts. I want… this.”

“If there are things you can’t share with me yet, it’s all right. Bucky? I care about you. I just… I do. And it’s hard for me, too, because sometimes. Y’know, sometimes, I just wish. I wish I could be-” Steve’s voice faltered. 

“Wish you could be what?”

“Healthy,” Steve blurted. “Better. Less of a wreck. I want to be that. For you.”

And there was an edge to Steve’s voice that made Bucky reach for the burner with his right hand and turn it off.

“Dinner’s gonna be ready in a minute, Buck-”

“It can wait. It needs to wait. Come with me.” Bucky turned Steve, who was ducking his head again, but Bucky needed him to look at him, to listen to him. Now that he was ready to talk, to open that door.

“Just come with me, Stevie. Please?”

Steve finally looked up into his eyes, licking his dry lips, and he nodded. Steve let Bucky lead him back into his bedroom. Sam and Monica headed to a nearby flea market for the afternoon. The last rays of sunshine cast panes of golden light across Bucky’s comforter. Bucky sat on the bed, kicked off his shoes and lay back, reaching for Steve, whose expression was still hard to read. He curled into Bucky’s right side, out of habit, and Bucky wrapped him a snug embrace, kissing his hairline.

“Don’t tell me you want to be better for me, Steve. Okay? Because you couldn’t if you tried. You’re perfect. You hear me? You’re perfect, and I love everything about you. Every single goddamned thing.”

Steve sounded like he was about to say something, but he stopped himself, and his fingers curled themselves in Bucky’s shirt. Bucky kneaded Steve’s shoulder and kissed him again.

“Everything about you, Steve. I love you.”

“I told you before, I’m kind of a mess. I guess, it’s been harder, lately? I have a checkup coming up with my old back surgeon, and I have to fly out to Stanford for it. So that’s been on my mind, because I’ll have to close shop for a few days, and I still have to have labs drawn and go to my cardiologist, too. When it rains, it pours.” Steve stroked Bucky’s chest through his shirt, palming his heartbeat. “So, I get a little overwhelmed, sometimes.”

“You can talk to me about that, sweetheart.”

“Didn’t wanna unload.”

Bucky laughed bitterly. “Baby. You didn’t wanna unload.” Bucky lifted his left hand and laid it over Steve’s where it rested on his chest. “We’re a couple of idiots. Thing is, I’ve had this on my mind for a while. I don’t talk about my arm. I thought, maybe it’d make you.” Bucky paused, and he swallowed down a dry, hot lump that made his eyes burn. “Maybe, you’d…”

“Bucky.” 

Steve raised his head and stared into Bucky’s eyes, saw the first sparks of tears. 

“Sometimes. Me talking about it. With certain people. It just… it just didn’t…”

“Bucky.” 

“And you’re just so nice, and so… I care about you s-so much, and-”

“It’s okay.”

“I don’t… I didn’t want you to see it, because maybe you’d hate it, and-”

Steve shook his head, and he wiped away the tears that darted out of the corner of Bucky’s eyes and straight down the side of his neck. “I couldn’t hate any part of you, James Buchanan.” Steve took a second to wipe his own eyes, reaching under his glasses to rub at them, and his nose was running a little, but he kissed Bucky, just to ground them both. “We’re idiots,” he murmured between kisses. “Bucky, I love you so much.”

“I still have nightmares about losing it. It still feels like my arm’s supposed to be there,” Bucky confessed, and Steve held him fiercely, tangling his legs with Bucky’s, relieved to feel the weight of Bucky’s left arm draped across his back. Bucky trusted him. Steve didn’t want Bucky to feel afraid to share this with him. He never wanted Bucky to fear sharing anything with him. “I got infections, too. My original amputation wasn’t this severe. I lost it up to my elbow, and… it got infected, and they had to go back and debride it. They took off more of it. I had washout surgeries and a wound vac. I had to take home an infusion pump. My parents had to take care of me, and my mom had to learn how to do the injections for me. And change my dressings.” Steve embraced him more tightly, and Bucky’s breathing was still hitched and uneven. Steve just stroked his hair, drying his tears every time one fell and dampened his shirt collar. “I hated hospitals. I just wanted my arm back, and my life back. I didn’t want to be in pain anymore, Steve. And I have so many… scars.” Bucky felt the slight press of Steve’s lips against his collarbone in response to that confession.

“Does it bother you when I touch your arm, Buck?”

“It doesn’t. I just wish it felt the same way it does when you touch me anywhere else,” Bucky told him. 

“I was worried that it wasn’t okay. I didn’t want you to feel like I was just, I don’t know… being pushy. Or insensitive. I’d never want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You can touch me wherever you want. Think I still like having you on my right side, Stevie. So I can feel you against me.”

“I want you to feel safe with me.”

“I do. I have my bad days, Stevie. Don’t tell me you’re a mess. I’m a mess, too.”

“So, I can be a mess with you?” Steve joked, but his voice was hoarse, and he was sniffling against. Bucky caressed Steve’s damp cheek, then reached down to take off Steve’s glasses and set them on the bedstand. 

“You can always be a mess with me.”

“Gotta finish dinner.”

“You don’t have to hurry off.”

“If I stay here, I’ll never get back up. I need to feed you, and I need to take my meds on a full stomach. C’mon, Buck.”

“Can we raincheck this for later?”

“Here, back in bed?” Steve said hopefully as he sat up and put his glasses back on.

“If you want. But maybe we could shower first.”

“That’s fine, I left you some clean towels when I did the wash-”

“Both of us.”

“-today.”

“Okay?”

Before Steve could form the words, Bucky caught his chin in a light, but insistent grip and kissed him, long and deep. They came up for air and Steve licked his lips, eyes dark with want.

“Okay,” he agreed breathlessly.

Steve finished his simple hash with sausage and the steamed vegetables, and they made short work of dinner. Bucky put away the clean dishes before Steve washed the ones in the sink, and he gathered up the trash to take out. His stomach was still full of knots from the anticipation of really letting Steve see him, but a weight was lifted from his chest when he finally let on to Steve just how afraid he’d been of sharing his wounds, his feelings of being less than whole. Bucky walked the trash to the dumpster on the side of Steve’s townhouse, lifting the lid and tossing the bag over the edge. He waved at Steve’s elderly neighbor, Mr. Morita, who hadn’t hesitated the first time he met Bucky to ask him if he was a veteran. Bucky told him about his accident, and then thanked Jim for his service, since he’d served, himself. He still met his surviving fellow vets for breakfast once a month. A couple of them had lost limbs, but none of them had a prosthetic like Bucky’s. 

Bucky went back inside and washed his hand, then wrapped his arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Wanna run the water? I need to take this off.”

“This… right. Your arm. Shower? Or bath, better?” Steve was tongue-tied, almost shy, now that Bucky was offering something he’d wanted for so long but wasn’t sure about the best way to ask for it. Bucky looked nervous, too, but he gave Steve a squeeze.

“Bath.”

Steve bit his lip, and he nodded.

“One bath, coming up.” Bucky gave him a quick kiss.

“Dinner was good, Stevie.”

“Glad you liked it.”

They were both a bundle of nerves, but Steve felt reassured about Bucky, that he hadn’t asked too much of him yet. Steve went into the bathroom to run the bath. On impulse, he rooted through the drawers and cabinets, finding an old gift bag from Lush. It had been a gag gift from Darcy that Steve won in their studio’s White Elephant gift swap two Christmases ago. Steve reached into the bag, sifting through the piles of confetti’d tissue paper until he found the sparkling purple bath bomb. “Twilight,” it was called, embossed with little stars. It smelled like lavender, and the scent was a little much for Steve, but he wondered if Bucky might like it. He set it aside as he let the water rush into the tub, filling the bathroom with steam. Steve began to undress, setting aside his glasses, tugging off his jersey and undershirt, sliding his belt out from its loops. He stared at his reflection for a minute, taking in the familiar landscape of his body. Same scars. Same barely existent muscles and nearly transparent skin beneath the careful ink. Steve turned and glanced at the seraphim gracing his left ribs; it needed a touch-up soon. He’d need to see Nate soon to sharpen the lines and bring him Sarah’s reference photo again. The semi-realistic angel with his mother’s likeness was the way Steve felt he could best carry her with him after he lost her. Steve might not have carried on her legacy, but he still wanted to honor it by helping people reframe bad memories into something positive, telling their stories on their skin. Honoring the lost. Covering a scar. Turning an injury into a canvas. Remaking themselves under his needles and careful strokes, letting him render the pain into something beautiful. Meaningful. Steve took off his remaining clothes, dropping them into a pile below the towel rack. He turned off the tap and tested the water; it was just this side shy of too hot, but he settled into it, grateful for the heat as it penetrated his back, which ached. Bucky would be grateful for it, too, Steve was certain. Steve groaned with pleasure, breath rushing out of his chest as the water closed around him, up to his ribs.

From just down the hall, Steve heard the sounds of Bucky’s clothes swishing as they hit the floor. Then, the familiar sounds of Bucky setting up the charger for his arm, and him removing the limb. More clothes fell, and Steve heard the faint creak of the door as it swung open. 

“Is it ready?”

“Almost. I’m in, so…” Steve’s voice trailed off when he realized Bucky was hesitating just outside the door, which was slightly ajar.

“Hope you left me some room,” Bucky suggested. His voice was a little hoarse, and uncertain as he joined Steve in the bathroom, giving him a nervous little smile. “You look cozy.”

“You could be, too, handsome,” Steve invited. “Water’s fine. You’re just in time to try this out,” he said, nodding to the bath bomb, but his eyes were riveted on Bucky. Gloriously, gracefully, naked Bucky. He took his hair down from its ponytail, a clear indication that he wanted to wash it while he was in there, or for Steve to do it for him. His glossy brown waves hung down to his shoulders, kept longer than usual to keep his neck warm under his coat collar. He lingered there, clenching his hand where it rested against his thigh. 

His left arm was smoother than Steve had pictured in his mind. There were scars. A profusion of long, jagged lines over the crest of his shoulder, and more defined, broader ones made by a scalpel and bovie tips. Bucky’s arm stopped a few inches past his shoulder, but the muscle was still defined and sculpted. “They had to take a lot of it,” Bucky reminded him. “I was just getting used to what I had left.”

“I bet.”

“I don’t always like what I see.”

“It’s different when it’s you, looking at you,” Steve told him. “The guy in the mirror that says hello to me every morning while I’m brushing my teeth is one ugly bastard.”

“No, he ain’t,” Bucky argued.

“You’re being nice, because you love me.”

“Nope. I love you. That means I get to act like an asshole, and you won’t toss me out for it.”

“That’s not how it works!” Steve was grinning at him, though. “Get your ass in here.”

“What is that thing, again?”

“A bath bomb.”

“Do I even want to know why you happen to have one?”

“Darcy.”

“Ah.” Steve moved up in the tub, hoping it could fit them both, and Bucky stepped in behind him. “Geez… thing’s narrow. Shit, it’s hot…” But Bucky hissed in pleasure once he settled into the water, clinging to the edge of the tub as he accustomed himself to the heat, then relaxing his grip. He unfolded one long, sculpted leg, then the other, and he pulled Steve into the nook between them. Steve giggled in surprise at the sensation of Bucky’s flaccid dick buffeting against his ass as Bucky pulled him partly onto his lap to help them both better fit in the tub. They displaced the water, and it was up to Steve’s chest, now, with Bucky pressed at his back, and Bucky wrapped his arm around Steve’s shoulders, nuzzling behind his ear.

“Toss that thing in, already,” Bucky nagged. “Let’s see what it does.”

Steve gave the bomb a dubious look as he dropped it into the tub, practically chucking it toward their feet. It splashed them a little as it hit the water, and within moments, it began fizzing.

“Whoa…” Bucky sounded perplexed. “Is it supposed to-”

“Shit!!!!” Steve yelped as it began to foam and bubble, agitating the water and releasing clouds of lavender scent into the air. He jumped back against Bucky, who was giggling like a lunatic at his back.

“Oh, my God… you just jumped a mile. You’re cute, Stevie!” 

“It’s… jizzing everywhere,” Steve moaned, and he kept squirming back against Bucky, waiting for the bomb to finish what it was doing, because it was freaking him out.

“It’s like a spa. Just kick back and enjoy it.”

“I’m declaring a ban on these at gift swaps at the office from now on.”

“It smells nice. It’s relaxing,” Bucky told him. The heat of the bath was making him drowsy, and Steve’s close, skin-to-skin contact was decadent, no shirts or other barriers between them. Bucky kissed Steve’s shoulder, lipping at its smoothness and the hard knobs of his joints. “Just enjoy it.”

“You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

“I’m with my fella. And he’s naked. What’s not to enjoy?” Bucky’s fingers stroked Steve’s chest, toying with a pebbled nipple. Steve was aroused, twitching and hardening to life under the water, and Bucky was straining underneath his rump. Steve leaned back, giving Bucky better access to his throat while the little bomb continued to fizz. Steve reached back and combed his fingers through Bucky’s hair, turning his face into Bucky’s kiss. Beneath him, Bucky began to rut against him, erect and nestled against Steve’s crease. Steve arched into Bucky’s caress when he teased his nipples, tugging on them. Steve braced himself, gripping the side of the tub again, and his hips lifted and ground back down against Bucky, pushing himself back with his heels against the foot of the tub. Bucky was trapped in the juncture between their hips, with Steve’s round, firm cheeks coddling his length, gliding slickly against it. “Steve…”

“Like that?” Steve husked. He was breathing a little hard already, and Bucky made him slow down the pace, but he jutted against him, lifting his hips to let Steve feel that friction. Steve felt the buffeting of his balls against his ass. Bucky’s hand drifted down Steve’s flat belly, nails lightly scraping through the saturated nest of coarse, sandy hair between his legs, and Steve swore when he felt Bucky’s hand wrap around him in a familiar grip.

“You like that?” Bucky countered, voice a sexy rasp in Steve’s ear, murmured against his throat. They thrust at each other like that, with Bucky’s thumb swiping over the tip of Steve’s cock, rosy and swollen and setting Steve off on a tide of desperate begging.

“I like that, Bucky… oh, _God_... s’nice, it’s so nice…”

“I wanna make you feel good, sweetheart.”

“It’s feels good. You feel so good.” Bucky was so firm and hard, stacked with solid muscle, skin hot and smooth at Steve’s back. He felt like heaven, and Steve felt so safe, being held so close.

“Love how you sound right now, Stevie. Like you can’t get enough. You like that.”

Steve’s head was tipped back onto Bucky’s shoulder as Bucky jerked him, and Bucky might have regretted not having a second hand to touch Steve with, but he worked with what he could reach, and Steve _wasn’t complaining_ for one damned second. Steve was riding Bucky, practically crying, cursing, ringed in his fist, and the pleasure made his vision white out when it hit.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” Bucky demanded, tugging on Steve through the shocks as he spilled over Bucky’s fingers. Steve’s body shuddered, and he gaped up at Bucky, stunned. Awed. _Wrecked_.

Steve collapsed, sprawling back against him, limbs completely limp and floating in the water. Bucky supported him, arm draped around his waist.

“Love watching you. Love hearing you.” Steve’s submerged tattoos wavered under water where it rippled, magnifying them. Bucky was still aroused, but he was close. Steve noticed, too, and he langorously rose, turning and kneeling with more energy than Bucky assumed he possessed. “You don’t have to-” The words failed him when Steve knelt, ringed Bucky’s cock in his grip and began to suckle him. The base of it was still submerged, but Steve, like Bucky, worked with what he could reach. The jolt of pleasure made Bucky’s head knock back against the tile. Steve huffed a laugh, and the little vibrations pulsed through Bucky’s flesh. He drew up his legs, trying to lift himself up to give Steve more to work with. His dark thatch of hair glistened, and the water coddled his balls. Bucky’s thighs strained to keep his hips thrust up, to give Steve access to his cock. Those pale blue eyes shone with lust, even though by rights, Steve should be passed out in the sheets after reaching his own peak. But he wanted Bucky to come, and Bucky had a habit by now of giving Steve whatever his sweet little heart desired. 

Steve spat it out this time. Bucky wasn’t offended.

“Lavender,” Steve muttered.

The two of them were glazed in a fine dust of purple and indigo glitter when they drained the tub. They rinsed themselves in the shower, and Steve washed Bucky’s hair, lathering it twice just for the luxury of working the slick waves through his fingers, earning himself Bucky’s languid, pleased smile. By the time they finished, dried off and eased themselves into briefs and tees to sleep, neither of them wanted to move. They cuddled together under the duvet and talked themselves hoarse, then drifted off into a lavender-scented sleep.

*

 

Steve closed up shop after ‘Ro finished her last permanent eyeliner client, and Darcy went to the bank to drop off the deposit, but not before she squared everything with Steve.

“Ledger’s balanced, boss. I turned off the coffee pot and did the dishes.”

“Lock the back store room, too.”

“Why? What’s anyone gonna steal? The cobwebs?”

“Darce…”

“Yeah, yeah. I locked it, Boss Man. I listen to you. Sometimes,” she amended.

“Sure, you do.”

Bucky sat in Steve’s chair, leg jittering while he waited for Darcy to go. She gave him a soft smile.

“He’s good. You’re going to enjoy it, Bucky. Steve’ll take good care of you, okay?”

“I know he will.” But Bucky’s stomach was still full of butterflies after Darcy left. Steve came over and took Bucky’s hand, leading him to his long recliner. “Get comfortable, Buck.”

“Maybe you should knock me out, first…”

“Uh-uh. I want you with me every step of the way for this, sweetheart. Trust me?” Bucky was staring at his hands in his lap. “Bucky?”

“I do.”

“Look at me.” And Steve cradled Bucky’s cheek in his palm. “I love you. If you’re not up to this, yet, it’s okay.”

“I want this. I want you to do this.”

“Take a look at the sketch again.”

“I loved it when you showed it to me.”

“Well, look at it again. Humor me.” Steve grinned, and he gave Bucky a sweet, teasing kiss. “Pretend that I know how to draw.”

“I still hang your stuff on the fridge, too,” Bucky kidded back, but he let Steve take out the large drawing pad and flip to the sketch. He exhaled a tense breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I want it.”

“This is the stencil.” He showed Bucky that, too, before he began to cut outside the outline, trimming it to fit around the curve of Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky took off his shirt, and Steve turned up the heater to make him comfortable. He turned his music back on at low volume, setting Bucky’s favorite Pandora station. He squirmed a little when Steve applied the damp stencil paper to his skin after he cleaned it with rubbing alcohol. Steve gently rubbed the stencil to set the pattern against his rosy flesh, then carefully lifted it off, taking care not to smear his lines.

He held up a small mirror for Bucky to get a good look at it, and Bucky nodded in approval at the placement. “Good?”

“Good.”

“Okay.” Steve took away the mirror, and he gave Bucky another kiss, lingering over it for a moment. “Your first tattoo.” 

“Yeah, Stevie.”

“I’m honored that you’re letting me do it. This means…” Steve’s eyes burned, but he cleared his throat. “Let’s make you comfortable.” Steve leaned back the recliner, settling Bucky back into it. His body was a melody of muscle, and Steve wished they were back in bed, so he could enjoy it for a while, but he had work to do. He lightly caressed the curve of Bucky’s shoulder, feeling his muscle tense in response. “Take it easy.”

“I know… I know.”

Steve heard Bucky’s deep, cleansing breath as he loaded his needle with ink, and he held Bucky’s skin taut beneath his gloved fingers as he made the first pass with the gun.

*

Bucky woke from a light doze, eyes a little glazed as Steve hovered over him, giving him a little shake. “Bucky. Wake up, baby. We’re done.”

“Huh?”

“All done. It’s finished. And you dozed off. I swear, Bucky, you’ve got Hank’s tolerance for pain.” Steve shook his head, marveling as Bucky yawned, clutching absently at the light blanket Steve draped over his chest while he slept. Bucky remembered the buzz of the needle in his ears, the burn of it rattling against his flesh, the pain that came in waves and receded, Steve’s soft encouragement to relax, that he was doing so well…

But Bucky remembered breathing through it, focusing on the strains of music underscoring the whine of the gun, taking himself to a place where nothing could hurt him. Where he just seemed to… float. The euphoria he felt every time the pain dwindled was a rush.

“I think I get why he comes back so often,” Bucky admitted.

“Hope it wasn’t that bad, baby.” Steve stroked Bucky’s hair, and Bucky’s eyes shuttered in response to the caress. “I’d never want to hurt you.”

“I can tell it’s gonna smart a little,” Bucky admitted. “Didn’t tickle for a while.”

“Sure didn’t.” But Steve smiled at him, pride mingling with love. “If you’re ready to get up and take a look, there’s a good mirror over there.” Bucky let Steve kick down the lever of the recliner to bring him upright, and Bucky yawned and stretched, then crossed the room to the full-length mirror.

“Oh. Wow.” Steve flicked on the desk lamp to give him a better look, and his expression was tense and expectant behind Bucky, brows a little furrowed. “It’s permanent,” Steve told him, tone serious. “No turning back now, sweetheart.”

“You did this.” Bucky traced a fingertip over Steve’s impeccable line work, barely even grazing it. “My God, Steve.”

Steve swallowed as Bucky turned his arm at different angles, flexing his shoulder.

Steve etched a scene of Zeus, with billowing red hair, wielding long, jagged lightning bolts from a leather quiver. The anatomy of his massive shoulders and sculpted chest was modeled closely on Bucky’s physique, and Steve had fun drawing Bucky, convincing him to be his model. That spawned endless jokes about Bucky “inspiring” Steve that usually ended up with Bucky talking Steve out of his clothes so he wouldn’t feel like the odd man out. Fire and smoke rose from the forge behind him, the shadowy, grim figure of Hephaestus looking on as he raised his hammer to create more of the weapons for their grim purpose. Steve used the contour of Bucky’s shoulder well, and the lightning bolts followed the lines of his scars. The piece was shaded and colored with a loving hand, well-saturated and even, leaving the skin to “breathe” in the correct places. Steve made tiny highlights with white ink, the shines of Zeus’ pupils, a ripple of light atop his scalp, the crowns of his firm cheekbones, also so much like Bucky’s. 

“If you didn’t make me put that damned beard on him, I would’ve been able to give him your cleft,” Steve complained. 

“Then he wouldn’t be Zeus. He wouldn’t be badass,” Bucky pointed out. “I love this, Stevie.” Bucky’s eyes were shining, and he reached for Steve, arm wrapping around his waist and pulling him against him for hungry kisses.

“You’re gonna hafta let me put a dressing on it, baby.”

“Just giving the artist some appreciation. Gotta let my new artwork breathe.”

Steve didn’t argue with him. Who was he to argue, anyway, when his fella had his shirt off? And Steve Rogers was in the habit of giving his boyfriend whatever his sweet little heart desired.

FIN.


End file.
